


Beautiful Things Can Come From the Dark

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-09
Updated: 2009-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 132,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding.  A rape aftermath story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not a WIP. I have all the parts already written. :) I tried this new thing called writing it out on paper and that went much faster for some reason. Expect the next bit tomorrow or, schedule not permitting, the next day. And this one is _long_. First part is almost 9000 words. Oh my!

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From the Dark  
Author: Edie  
Rating: Definitely a hard R. Deals with rape and sexual situations. I have no idea about this particular part. Perhaps a hard PG-13?  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding.  
Chapter Summary: Draco makes a decision that will change everything.  
Author's Notes: Not a WIP. I have all the parts already written. :) I tried this new thing called writing it out on paper and that went much faster for some reason. Expect the next bit tomorrow or, schedule not permitting, the next day. And this one is _long_. First part is almost 9000 words. Oh my!  
Disclaimer: JKR’s characters and the title comes from the song of the same name by Azure Ray.

 

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Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

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**

 

“ _Tell me your convoluted stories through_  
Your half-rotten mouth  
I will decipher them to tell the world of your heart-  
How beautiful things can come from the dark.”  
\- Azure Ray’s ‘Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

 

The night air was crisp, so bitterly cold that Draco Malfoy imagined he could feel it permeating his insides. He thought of icy fingers twisting around his intestines, turning and tangling and yanking. Nothing but blood on the inside, blood and the ugly bits that were his guts, and it would _hurt_ worse than a _Cruciatus_ when it all froze. He knew that for fact. He had seen it once, seen life ripping its way from a body, and death was not beautiful.

 

He should have cast a warming charm but he had forgotten. He had seen a break in the never ending security McGonagall had provided at Hogwarts and he’d seized it. He was too afraid- no, too cautious- to cast one now. The last thing he needed was the ensuing flash of light to alert one of the many Aurors patrolling the perimeter to his presence. Wouldn’t he just _love_ to explain what he was doing wandering around the edges of the Forbidden Forest.  


Speaking of which… He tightened his cloak and picked up his pace.

 

It had been a useless excursion anyway but then again most of them had been lately. Draco hadn’t heard from his father in two weeks even though he’d checked the blasted cranny in the tree his father had directed him to at every available opportunity for missives. It was the only way his father could communicate with him; the only way he could write to his father. He had no idea who picked up his letters or who dropped his father’s off, although he suspected they might have magically transported themselves somehow. Everything in his life was ridiculously veiled and secretive and this was no exception.

 

 _Your fault_ , a voice whispered, nagging and intense. _Can’t bloody well complain when you were the one rushing in there to do a job completely half arsed._

 

Although he doubted it would have been different had he been the one wielding the wand at the end. A bit of a stay in Azkaban perhaps but even that would have been brief. To the collective surprise of no one, Dumbledore’s death had caused chaos and the prisoners had reacted in a massive revolt. It was as though all of the escapees had vanished into thin air, disappearing to wherever it was Snape had ended up. Regrouping, Draco thought.

 

As such, the tree was all he had quite simply because Draco had no idea where to begin searching for his father. Merlin, he hadn’t even seen his mother in three months despite the fact that she was holed up safely in the Manor. “It wouldn’t do to associate with us,” she had said rather impassively before he had boarded the Hogwarts Express, “You’ve no idea of the strings I had to pull to get you back in, Draco. You had better praise Potter every single day for his testimony and do not cause trouble. Someone will send for you when the time comes and only then may you even attempt to prove yourself.” No tearful goodbyes from his ice cold mum, only distant glances and odd expressions like she’d never truly seen him before.

 

It had helped his pride of course that Potter wasn’t there. He and Weasley were off fighting the good fight, leaving only Granger behind to hold down the fort. He had heard her telling Weasley’s brat of a sister to buck up because it was up to them to keep up morale in their weird world of constant anticipation but Draco had seen her studying in the library and had thought privately (oh fine, publicly. And loudly) that she couldn’t pass up her shot at Head Girl; couldn’t _not_ do her NEWTs.

 

Apparently attempted murder didn’t look good on one’s record as Head Boy was not an honour he himself had achieved. He felt stuck in limbo at times, no longer accepted but not exactly shunned. He had been given his own rooms as a safety measure lest some well meaning Slytherin try to take him out and he spent most of his time in somewhat forced isolation. It was no wonder he felt rather maudlin as he made his way through the snow.

 

The last missive he’d received from his father had cheered him up slightly. Given him something to think about other than his own circumstances at any rate. “It has come to my attention that there are plans for Granger,” it had read in Lucius Malfoy’s severe hand, “and I hope the Dark Lord will have forgiven you enough to make you of use. Do not disappoint me. I will send news as I hear it.” Blasted letter had self ignited so quickly that it had singed the tips of his fingers.

 

The dreams had started that night, horrible dreams about Dumbledore that left him sick and shaken in the morning, but he did his best to ignore them. Jitters was all. Afraid of failure, of a _second_ failure. Draco Malfoy simply didn’t do second failures and he was quite certain that neither his father nor Voldemort would tolerate one either. He couldn’t bear to let them down again.  


That said he absurdly hoped they wouldn’t require much of him. He thought he had already proven his absolute lack of stomach when it came to murder (or at least murder at his own hands) and wasn’t sure he was feeling up to much of anything past a few creative hexes.  


Sighing, he pushed himself onwards. The trees were thinning and soon he would be out of the bloody forest. Idly he wondered who would carry out the plan against Granger; wondered too exactly what the plan entailed. Would she even be around to take her NEWTs? Did he care? He thought not, although maybe he would miss heckling her about her horrid hair and abominable breeding. He had always preferred a good intellectual hammering as opposed to out and out physical violence. Anything brutish could land a good punch but it took brains to fight with words and he thought he might miss that too. Although it might be a worthy sacrifice to see Potty and the Weasel running home from Merlin knew where to-

 

A gurgle from his immediate left banished any thoughts of cackling while dancing on the Mudblood’s grave. Jumping, Draco gripped his wand and tried to peer through the darkness. Suddenly the trees seemed threatening, casting all sorts of moving shadows over the snow. He knew what sorts of things lived here and he didn’t even want to imagine the kind that gurgled. It was becoming perfectly clear that he was about to be eaten and without even getting an opportunity to prove himself to his father. He swallowed.

 

So did whatever was near him, before loudly and harshly hiccupping. Draco heard the unmistakable sound of something trying to claw its way off of the ground; heard its failure too as the snow crunched around its falling body. He remained perfectly still, a motionless form against a black backdrop of trees, and waited. It was obvious that whatever it was was injured. If he waited, perhaps it would not sense him and he could make a break for it, Aurors be damned.

 

The thing was gurgling in earnest now, breaking the silence of the forest with uneven heaving gulps of air. Despite himself, curiosity made him lean forward just enough to get the barest of glimpses of it… not that it did him much good. All he could make out was a black back as it attempted again and again to crawl and a faint light glinting off something hanging from its… cloak?

 

Merlin help him, it was a person and an obviously female person at that too, if its size was any indication. Indecision stayed his step as panic told him it was most likely a heartbroken fourth year come to sob away her miseries in the privacy of one of the most dangerous places she could. Who was he to judge? Moreover, who was he to stop her? Perhaps some people preferred death to heartbreak. If that was the case, it was entirely within his bounds to leave her. If that wasn’t the case, she could be dangerous and he should leave then too. If she was hurt already…

 

“What in the bloody hell are you doing?” he snapped, aiming his wand at her for good measure, “Show yourself.”

 

The figure stopped her dubious progress, tilting her head around at a crazy angle to take a look at him. He could not make out her face in the shadows but apparently she saw something about him that she did not like. Renewing the force of her sobs, she stopped crawling and began to desperately dig through the snow around her. Not wanting to move any closer, he tried to see what she could be looking for but all he could make out was whatever was catching the sodding light. Staring at her as intently as he was, it occurred to him that her head looked too large for her body. Swallowing something that might have been fear, he took a fraction of a step in her direction.

 

Draco Malfoy noticed three things all at once. Firstly, her head was not big at all, merely crowned by a messy array of curls springing this way and that and sporting an alarming amount of twigs and various other forest related things. Secondly, he realized that what he was seeing off the light of the moon was the Head Girl badge, knocked askew so badly that it was barely still attached to the front of her robes. Thirdly, he noticed that the snow she was digging through was not white at all but stained crimson as was the snow around where she had obviously been lying before.

 

Good Lord, he had obviously stumbled across Voldemort’s plan for Granger.

 

Gasping, he took a few awkward stumbles backwards although he did keep his wand leveled rather unsteadily at her head. Fear raced through him, fear and a sick sort of certainty that made his stomach churn so violently he was nearly certain he was going to be ill. It was obvious she had been hurt although how badly he could not ascertain. He was momentarily puzzled as to why she was still alive- as to what purpose that could be for- unless they planned on leaving her to bleed to death in the Forbidden Forest. Or unless they were leaving her for scavengers. He cast a wary look around at the trees, trying his damnedest not to panic.

 

Granger, for her part, seemed completely beyond merely panicking. She was clawing through the snow so desperately that Draco almost felt inclined to look away. And that wasn’t even to mention the awful keening sound she was making. She was refusing to look at him for longer than a couple of seconds at a time, just long enough to catch a glimpse of his face and nothing more. Those brief glances seemed to be spurring on her desperation and he thought rather stupidly that he was only about the least dangerous thing to happen to her all night.  


Or at least thus far. He had absolutely no idea as to what to do. She was alive, hurt but definitely alive. Should he leave her? Should he go to her? A brief headache was forming behind his eyes and he blinked to avoid it. If she hadn’t been killed, what exactly was their plan? And what had been done to her? It seemed to him that a swift _Avada Kedavra_ might have done the trick so if she was still among the breathing there had to be a reason for it, if only he could concentrate enough to see the bigger picture.

 

“Do you mind?” he asked her blandly, “I can’t think over that horrible noise you’re making.”

 

She looked at him then, eyes blazing and wild, and tried for the first time to actually stand. She made it to her knees while he hovered by uncertainly and it looked like she might actually make it all of the way. Shakily, she shot out a hand to steady herself on the trunk of the tree nearest to her and it was then that he saw her actual injury. Blood had completely soaked the sleeve of her robe and had been smeared all over her hand by her recent activities. He couldn’t see exactly what had been done to her wrist but as he watched three crimson droplets rolled from her skin and plummeted to the pristinely white snow below. She watched him watching her, taking in heaving gulps of air as she did so, and attempted to push up off her knees. There was a perilous second where she wavered unsteadily and then she was back down on the ground, crying and trying to cover her face with her bloody arm.

 

It was then that he knew beyond a doubt that he actually was going to be sick. It was a little known fact about Draco Malfoy but he could absolutely not abide the sight of blood. The coffee he had drank before his midnight excursion lurched alarmingly in his stomach and he had to turn away from her, grasping his wand as he dry heaved over the bushes. Stars danced before his eyes and he had to take in a few gulps of air himself before he felt good enough to look at her again.

 

So they had slit her wrist then. It seemed rather… uncivilized to his way of thinking, slicing her up and just leaving her to drain out dirty blood all over the place. Careless too since if she ever managed to calm herself down a good shout or two was probably all it would take to summon an Auror to her side. The only possible explanation was that they hadn’t wanted her dead after all.

 

“How badly hurt are you?” he demanded, taking a step in her direction. Granger picked up again with that awful keening and scooted backwards, away from him. Relentless now, he took another step towards her.

 

Perhaps it wasn’t his place to puzzle it out, especially here in the Forbidden Forest when he could do it much safer in his room later on. Perhaps they had wanted her to be found. So.

 

Mind made up, he reached her side quickly, trying all the while not to look at her hand. He was trying to ignore also a rather nauseating sense of relief at not having to leave her out for the beasts and the monsters, if only because he hadn’t had a chance to _use_ any of his creative hexes yet and he could hardly hex a corpse. Also he hadn’t even been given the hint of a chance to prove himself to his father and he’d be damned if the Mudblood would deny him that.

 

“Granger,” Draco snapped, barely managing to dodge her bloody wrist as she tried her hardest to smash his face in with it. She was kicking out wildly at him and he winced as her foot found purchase against his kneecap. “Sit still, would you, you silly bint! I’m trying to ascertain the damage. No, don’t punch at me like that!”

 

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, kicking a mountain of snow in his direction as she scurried backwards. He noticed absently that she was clutching at the front of her robes. “Do not touch me. Do not!”

 

“Merlin, I can’t imagine why I’d want to,” Draco murmured, falling backwards to avoid her flailing limbs. “Bloody hell! Stay _still_! I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

To prove this, he pocketed his wand and held his hands up in surrender. Granger, still huffing, stopped trying to unman him with her feet, pulling her knees to her chest instead. She watched him warily over their tops and this close up he realized that her left cheekbone was bruising. Her lip was split as well and a tiny stream of blood had made its way down her chin. He tried not to look at it. Tried not to look at her at all, even though he was about to have to.

 

“Give me your wrist. Let’s have a look.”

 

“N-no,” was the reply and then she was crying all over again, “Please. Please, Malfoy, no-”

 

“Merlin, Granger, when have I _ever_ listened to you?”  


That said, he jerked forward and caught her arm in his hands. It was slippery wet and the feeling of it caused the bile to revisit his throat. He swallowed hard and waited for the shower of blows he was sure would come from her other arm but when he gathered up enough nerve to actually look at her she was staring eerily at a spot over his shoulder, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. There was something in her eyes he did not like, something far away and distant, but he forced himself to ignore it and look down at the hand he held in his.

 

Later on he would think nothing could have prepared him for the shock of what he saw. He was expecting a clean slash across her veins but he knew as soon as he touched her that it was the longevity of her lying there that had reddened the snow. Her actual injury was more on her forearm, not deep enough across her veins to end her life, and there was nothing clean about it. What he saw was a mass of ruined skin; what he saw was a poorly carved Dark Mark.  


This time Draco could not stop the bile. Without dropping her wrist, he leaned away from her and gagged up his coffee into the snow her blood had stained. When he looked up again she was watching him and their eyes met. For the briefest of moments, it was though all of the years at Hogwarts fell away; as if nothing in their past had ever existed. She had been hurt in an unthinkable way and for a second he felt almost as scared as she. He knew he should throw some cutting quip into her face but all he could feel under his fingers was mutilated flesh; all he could see was her terrified eyes, tear bright and shifty as they tried to maintain contact.

 

Absurdly, he thought of how she had welcomed him back to Hogwarts with so much silent poise. She had been forced to, he knew that, but she hadn’t mentioned a thing about the previous year as she had shown him to his private rooms. “They’re close to mine,” she had said, clipped but still polite, “If you do anything wrong, Malfoy, I’ll know.”

 

He dropped her wrist.

 

“Don’t worry,” he told her, strangely as much for his sake as for her own, “It’s not very deep. Let that old bat Pomfrey take a look at it and I’m certain it won’t even scar.”

 

“It will,” she replied, voice clogged with grief, “It will. He said it will. He said I’ll always remember who did it. Every time I see it I can think of how he smiled when he- when he-”

 

A giant sob tore through her and she covered her face with her hands, rocking back and forth.  


“He’s wrong. You know how it is with Dark Wizards. Think they know everything.”

 

Draco didn’t know why he was saying it. Told himself it was all merely so that he could get her inside to finish her off later, in a much more public and self-glorifying fashion. Dying alone because she lacked the strength to haul herself to her feet and make a break for it wreaked of weakness and anybody who knew Hermione Granger at all knew she wasn’t weak. She deserved to go down in blazing glory just as much as he deserved to prove himself.

 

Moving quickly, he caught hold of her wrist again. She gave a cry of protest and mumbled something he didn’t quite catch but which sounded suspiciously like, “Please, I don’t want to be touched anymore.” Without letting go of her wrist, he yanked at her knees with his spare hand until they were flat against the snow, intending to rip off a piece of her cloak to wrap her cut in. The motion panicked her and it was only because she was so frazzled that the heel of her shoe missed his jaw and if she was crying before it had nothing on the awful sounds she was making now. It was only because Draco noticed something else that he did not use even the tiniest bit of force to restrain her.

 

“Your cloak,” he began, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “and your robes. They’re... torn. McGonagall is going to have your head, Granger, being Head Girl and all. How did you manage to-”

 

No. No. _No_.

 

The stars were back in his vision and this time it took more than a couple of blinks to make them go away. At the very least he was completely and utterly beyond nausea. Shocked though, so much so that he fell out of his squatting position and landed in the snow beside her.

 

Her robes were indeed ripped, torn past her thigh. Buttons on her bodice were missing and leaning as she was he could see the light yellow material of her bra, made dirty in her struggles. Draco felt distinctly uncomfortable noticing it and looked away so quickly that he thought he might feel a crick in his neck later. He was vaguely aware of shaking his head back and forth in denial; his hand shook when he raised it to yank the remains of her bodice back together. Her hand replaced his and her sobs were beyond sound now.

 

“Granger?” he asked, needing confirmation.

 

She said nothing but it did not matter. He could see the evidence of what had occurred high on the inside of her upper thigh. For a moment, his whole entire existence focused sharply on that bit of blood. He could hear his own rushing in his ears and _no_.

 

This time, he did not even pretend his reaction wasn’t for Granger simply because she was Granger. He could admit in the private recesses of his soul that she was the smartest witch he had ever met, even possibly smarter than him, and she did not deserve to be treated in such… She did not deserve to be degraded so fully. There was no intelligence here and there was nothing clean about it. A caveman could have committed such atrocities to her person. What he was looking at was brutal and violent in the simplest of ways, a basic and horrible domination of her, and he did not- could not, ever- tolerate rape. He was fairly quaking with indignation if not outright anger on her behalf.

 

“Who did this?” he asked, shocked despite himself at how furious he sounded.

 

She tried to slam her legs shut and he let her. Dropped her wrist so that she could fumble with the front of her robes in order to cover herself. She was shaking her head rapidly and worrying at her lip, succeeding only in breaking the scab that had already formed there.

 

“I don’t know,” she pleaded, meeting his gaze out of desperation, “I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I can’t remember. He wore a mask. I couldn’t point him out. Please, Malfoy. _Please_!” And she looked away.

 

Draco knew a liar when he saw one. He was more than convinced that she knew exactly who had done this to her but he couldn’t exactly fault her her silence. In her shoes, he was about the last person he’d tell too. Figuring that out was for later, for those horrible hours when he planned on trying to guess at what sort of big picture they could have had for raping her and dumping her in a bush. He was all for her removal from that picture but _not like this_. Not without a wand. Not without a fighting chance. And speaking of which-

 

“Where’s your wand, Granger? What in the bloody hell were you doing out _here_ without it? What in the bloody hell are you doing out here period?”

 

She ignored his questions, looking hysterically about herself instead. Her bottom lip was quivering so violently that he was afraid she was going to set it back to bleeding. In fact, she was shaking all over.

 

“You dropped it?” he guessed, “You did, didn’t you? Well done.”

 

Granger spit out, “He threw it” so defiantly that he thought for a moment that her hysteria had ended. A brief second where she sounded like herself but then her teeth were chattering and she was sinking back down to the ground. He shot a hesitant look at her arm.

 

Pushing a hand through his hair, he sighed. “You need to get inside. That arm needs to be healed. You-you should be… looked at. Can you walk?”

 

She shrugged dismally, seeming content to lay down in the snow and stay there. The fight was completely and utterly gone from her and he didn’t think he had ever seen her like that before. For whatever reason, he didn’t like it.

 

Shrugging out of his own cloak, Draco shoved it in her direction and gasped when the night air bit at him sharply. When she didn’t make a move to take it he put it on for her and made sure to do it up extra tightly underneath her chin. It was too big for her and he was reminded oddly of Snape but at least she was covered. Moving slowly so as not to startle her, he looped an arm under her legs and another around her back. She was not as heavy as he thought she’d be. Had no trouble standing at all, even with her added weight.

 

“There you go,” he told her, adjusting his hold, “We’ve just got to make sure the coast is clear. I know of a door we can get in. Don’t fuss, my wand is in my cloak pocket and you’re wearing my bloody cloak, aren’t you, Granger? Of course you are. No, steady on. Don’t roll your eyes back like that. It’s not so bad, not really. Your arm’ll heal. It’s just that you’ve been out here for a long time, haven’t you? Gone and lost yourself quite a bit of blood if the snow is any indication.”

 

As he babbled, he continued on towards the tree line. Granger’s head bobbed around a bit before lulling back against his shoulder. She was shaking so violently that he was having trouble maintaining his grip. Sighing, Draco clutched at her awkwardly and tried to take a good look about himself. As far as he could tell, the coast was more or less clear. Some extra security. Hesitantly, he stepped out of the forest.

 

“Absolutely silly of you to bleed that much.” Whispering now as he walked. “It’s poorly done, don’t you know. Merlin, I wish Hogwarts wasn’t so far away. We’re going to get caught and I don’t think this looks very good. Perhaps Potty will get to see me at a successful trial after all, hmm? Granger? Are you paying attention? Granger? Granger! Oh there you are. That’s a good girl. You’re such a nuisance!”

 

A soft exhalation against his cheek silenced him. Her hair was tickling at his nose and his ears. He longed for an extra hand to brush it away.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

He made sure his tone was deceptively light. “What could you possibly want? Going to chastise me for bumping you all over the place while I walk? Not my fault the grounds are in such disrepair. Talk to your friend Hagrid, how about. Fat lot of good he’s doing on the upkeep. Might have a word with him myself now that you’ve mentioned it.”

 

She hiccupped near his ear and he realized that she was crying again, softly now.

 

“Malfoy,” Granger whispered, a strange urgency driving her words, “Malfoy, you don’t feel like him. I-I thought you might. It’s getting dark, isn’t it?”

 

Draco tried not to feel unsettled by her words but he was feeling so unsettled in general that it was impossible not to add to it. Shivering, he hugged her closer and picked up his pace.

 

“Not getting any darker, Granger. Lighter if anything. Keep your eyes open. Try looking around. I can’t do _everything_ for you, now can I. What would your friends say? If you pass out, I’m going to hex you.”

 

“Have your wand,” was the shaky reply.

 

Draco told her, “I’m going to count my steps out loud and you are going to listen, understand? When we get inside, I’m going to ask you how many there were and if you get it wrong, I’m going to get my wand back and _then_ hex you.”

 

He felt her nod. Looking forlornly at how far they had to go, he said, “One… two… three…” and kept walking.

 

**

 

Even though he would never be sure quite how he did it without being caught with a battered Golden Girl in his arms, Draco managed to get himself and Hermione back into the school without incident. Once the door had closed behind them, he put her down on her feet and held onto her arm while she swayed uncertainly beside him.

 

“You need to get to Madam Pomfrey,” he told her, tightening his grip on her arm when she careened rather violently towards the wall, “She’ll fix up your arm and have… have a look to make sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else.”

 

Hermione gazed at him, stubborn despite the fact that she could hardly stand. The strength in her voice when she did speak astonished him.

 

“No. I’m not going to Madam Pomfrey’s. I’m going to go up to my room and have a bath. I’m not telling anyone about this.”

 

“What?!” he hissed, not even bothering to disguise his surprise, “You can’t be serious, Granger. You’re off your bird. You need a blood replenishing potion. You can hardly stand. How on earth are you even going to make it back to your room? Don’t be absurd. Besides, don’t you think you should report-”

 

She whirled in his grasp to face him, whirled so fast that her urgent movements were belied by the fact that she had to catch onto his shoulder with her bad arm to maintain her balance. He caught sight of steadfast resolve in her gaze and began to prepare himself for a real go at it.

 

“Don’t you think for one second I care about what happens to you for any other reason than the fact that I’m involved now. I should just leave you here to bleed, Granger, especially if you’re going to be so damned stupid about it.”

 

“No,” she said and she attempted to shake him too, “Listen to me, Malfoy. If I tell- if _you_ tell- Harry and Ron will find out. I’m nearly certain that’s what he wanted to happen, for them to rush home or otherwise he would have killed me. What they’re doing is far more important than what’s happened to me. I won’t have them distracted. If you so much as _think_ of telling, I’ll kill you. You might not have the stones to cast the Killing Curse but I do.”

 

“Should have cast it earlier then, shouldn’t you? And what about your arm? If you don’t heal it, it’s going to scar. Not that I care, mind. Walk around with _that_ on you for the rest of your life if you want.”

 

“You can heal it,” Hermione replied. It was obvious her brief show of defiance had taken more out of her than she could have afforded to lose. She swayed dangerously before him and had to change the angle of the murderous grip she had on his shoulder. He winced as her fingertips dug into his arms.

 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” Draco all but shouted. He looked up and down the corridor, hoping perversely that they would be discovered right that second, but there was nothing but faintly glowing torches and the usual sounds such a large castle was wont to make. “This supposed security system is a joke.”

 

“Wards. They’re using different wards. Not enough Aurors.”

 

“Still managed to get at you, didn’t they?”

 

With a sigh, he bent over to lift her and she went willingly, colliding against his chest with a soft “mmph.” Awkwardly, he proceeded down the hall and up a few flights of stairs, cursing the distance to the Head Girl rooms the whole entire way. His rooms were first and he reached them without incident. He considered going inside there for a moment, only to realize it wasn’t exactly feasible as her rooms were a scant few doors down.

 

His headache was back and definitely full fledged now. It pounded behind his eyes with such insistence that he could scarcely see and his arms felt like jelly under her weight. Swaying a little himself, he managed to make it to her door and then into her sitting room after she had given the password. He made quick work of depositing her rather unceremoniously onto the couch. She sunk down into the burgundy fabric and watched him silently.

 

“You won’t tell, will you?”

 

Draco looked around her rooms, districted and disturbed. They were in perfect order and, other than a textbook lying on the coffee table, looked hardly lived in at all. Her blasted cat was nowhere in sight and he wasted a good moment searching for it with his gaze. When he looked back at her, she was slumped against the cushions, playing idly with the sleeve of his cloak. _Bleeding_ on it most likely.

 

“No,” he said on a sigh, “I’m not going to tell. What good would that do me? Everybody I know would think I should have left you there. Maybe I should have. I-I don’t know.”

 

Hermione blinked back tears and nodded her head. Fished through his pockets for his wand. Holding it out to him, she said, “Why didn’t you?”

 

Ahh, the one million galleon question.

 

“Enough with the questions,” he snapped uncomfortably, “Let’s have a look at your wrist again.”

 

She lifted it off of her lap and he moved to squat in front of her. In the light of her room, it was deeper than he had originally thought but was definitely more of a bleeder than a mortal wound. It hadn’t been done with magic, he surmised. A blade of some kind, perhaps. It was not a clean representation at all, uglier somehow and twisted. It took more willpower than he knew he had not to gag.

 

Hesitant to begin, Draco offered, “I’m not very good at healing spells. I’m going to do that nasty bruise on your face first. Start small.”

 

When she did nothing but shrug, he touched the tip of his wand to her cheekbone and murmured the spell. Again on her lip and then there was nothing left but her wrist.

 

“Did he use magic on it?”

 

Hermione shook her head softly. “No. He used a knife. The Muggle way for a dirty Mudblood.” And she laughed hollowly.

 

Draco echoed it, grimacing inside at how fake it sounded. “Suppose that’s fitting. Wouldn’t do to use magic. Merlin. At least it’ll be easier to heal this way.”

 

Hermione watched his fingers dance along the outsides of her wound and knew he was inexplicably nervous. For all that it counted, the fraction of her brain not focusing on getting through the next couple of hours was more than confused by his behavior. Too tired to cry, she let out a wet huff and allowed her head to slump down onto her shoulders.

  
“He did use magic at first,” she whispered, staring now at the blond head bobbing over her arm, “He came up behind me and used the Stupefying Charm on me. That’s… that’s when he did that to my arm and got rid of my wand. I guess he must have used some sort of silencing spell as well because when he reversed the other I couldn’t speak… I couldn’t and he was… he was on me before I knew what was what and… and-”

 

“No one saw him.” A statement, not a question. “No one saw the red flash? No one saw you leave?”

 

She shook her head. “No one. No one saw anything and there wasn’t anyone there to stop… to stop him when he… when he began.”

 

Sensing tears, Draco glanced up from her arm. She wasn’t crying very hard but she had somehow summoned the strength to release a few silent ones. He watched them course down her dirty cheek and squeezed her arm lightly.

 

“Well then. Best to be healing this quick.” A pause. “I know another. One for… for _that_. In case anything… Well, in case you’re pregnant. Or in case he wasn’t clean. I assume he didn’t use anything?”

 

“No. No, I don’t think so. I… don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?” Glanced up again and she was still doing that half crying thing she seemed to be perfecting. “How on earth can’t you know?”

 

“He didn’t cast a spell,” she mumbled and he thought he caught a hiccup that might have been the beginning of actual sobs, “And… I didn’t see anything. I didn’t look. Please, I don’t want to talk about it. Malfoy, please don’t make me. I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t_. Don’t make me tell you.”

 

He nodded at her and passed up the opportunity to mock her for begging him. Touched his wand to her wrist instead and said the spell in a voice that most certainly wasn’t shaking. He had to do it twice more before the wound closed and even then it was still pink. Sighing, he aimed his wand then at her person in general and added, “ _Purus_.”

 

A moment before he added, “That’s the one. See, you’ve got to flick your wand just like so.”

 

“God,” she murmured, slumping forward, “I wish that could have made it all go away.”

 

“Yes well. It can’t,” was his rather harsh reply. Pushing himself to his feet, he surveyed her rooms with a critical eye and only stopped his perusal when he found the door that obviously led to the bathroom. “You’ll want to have a bath. I’m going to stay here while you’re in there. I’ll be beyond brassed off at you if you pass out in there and drown after making me haul your sorry arse all the way in from the Forbidden Forest.”

 

“Yes. Thank you.” She stood up, steadying herself on the couch, and managed to make it to the bathroom with a few wobbly steps. Throwing a look over her shoulder, she went inside and shut the door softly behind her.

 

He waited for a few seconds until he heard the water running; then he plopped down on the seat that she had recently vacated. The fabric was still warm from where she had sat and he noticed absently that she’d bled a little bit onto the arm. He shied away from it, leaned his head back until it fell against soft material, and shut his eyes.

 

He was absolutely out of his mind, that much was certain. Now that any imminent danger was over and she was away from him with all of her injuries, he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing. Told himself rather firmly it was because the Dark Lord obviously hadn’t wanted her dead and tried to believe that everything was still going according to plan… whatever that plan could have been.

 

Granger didn’t want her little friends to know, that much was obvious. He wasn’t certain how he felt about that. Simple decency made him want to let McGonagall know that her star pupil had been hurt in an unthinkable way but he forced himself not to think like that at all. He did not agree with the methods, that much was true, but he couldn’t make a full decision until he knew what the plan for Granger was. Had they been counting on her running to Potty and the Weasel? Was it all merely a trap to bring them back to Hogwarts? Or was there something he wasn’t seeing?

 

Merlin help him but he should have left her in the woods. His palms felt damp and he rubbed them restlessly against his trousers; noticed for the first time that they were wet from the snow. But he did not hold with rape and if they had wanted her to simply die there then why hadn’t they finished her off? And who had done it? It was obvious that Granger knew but had no plans of telling him.

 

Tomorrow morning he would sneak back to the woods and leave a missive for his father. He would simply tell him what had transpired and how Granger was reacting. Lucius Malfoy would no less rejoice in the news of her emotional stress and was definitely the right person to advise him on what to do now. He only hoped he hadn’t bollixed it up already.

 

Lifting his head, he hollered at the door, “Granger? You aren’t drowning in there, are you? I _really_ don’t want to have to come in.”

 

Another sob from the other side of the door and that was answer enough for Draco.

 

Standing up, he began to prowl about her rooms, looking for anything that might strengthen her up a bit. He didn’t have time to make a blood replenishing potion and he was too tired himself to go steal one. Asking Pomfrey was out of the question. It was good that Granger trusted him a little and there was no need to change her mind until his father told him what to do. Food would have to do the trick.

 

He found two Muggle chocolate bars in the drawer of her desk and an apple in her bag. Frowning at the selection, he rummaged deeper and found some sort of cardboard container that read “Milk” on the label. Cracking it open revealed that it wasn’t sour but it was definitely warm. Shrugging, he put it beside the food and moved to the bathroom door.

 

“Been quite awhile now, you know. You’re going to get all pruny on your toes and no one likes that. Time to get out.”

 

Silence.

 

“Granger? Damn you, listen to me! Get out of the bath. You’re going to faint.”

 

Nothing, not even the smallest sound of water rippling.

 

“Bloody hell, you annoying bint! Answer me at once or I’m coming in.” He waited, counting patiently to fifteen. When he still received no word, he tried the door handle and nudged it open a little. “Better cover up your girly bits, Granger. I don’t want to see them.”

 

He gave her a second to do just that and then in he went. He found her sitting in the tub, knees drawn up to her chest, with a wash cloth gripped indecisively in her hand. All he could see over the rim of the tub were the tops of her knees and her shoulders but they were scrubbed red to the point of being almost raw. She was sobbing again, harder now than she had even in the woods, and Draco was at a complete loss as to what to do.

 

He gawked at her for a moment before offering up, “Granger? Is everything… err… alright?”

 

Hermione started violently and whipped around to face him. He smashed his eyes shut, awkward and uncomfortable, and said, “I’m not looking. Just answer the question.”

 

“Get out!” A shriek thickened by tears. “Get the fuck out of my bathroom, Malfoy! Get out and don’t look!”

 

She launched the wash cloth at him then and, eyes shut, he wasn’t even aware of it until it smashed into his chest. Swearing, he stepped backwards to avoid the tide of water she shot at him next and added a hand over his eyes for good measure. Good thing he did too because not even a second later he was smacked right on that hand with the soap. She continued thusly for a few minutes- continued, he suspected, until there was nothing left to throw at him- before dissolving again into tears.

 

“I can’t get him off of me,” she moaned, “I can feel him. I can smell him. God, he’s everywhere. I’ll never get it off. I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed and it’s like he’s still touching me.”

 

Afraid to move away from the relative safety of the door, Draco said as soothingly as possible, “He’s not, Granger. He’s gone. It’s just you and I here and if I was going to hurt you, I think I would have done it already. You need to get out of the tub now. Although you packed a pretty good punch with the soap there, you’ve lost too much blood to linger. Come on now. Get up.”

 

Hermione didn’t move. “I don’t want to yet. I can’t. I’m not clean.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, risking a step forwards, “You’ve scrubbed yourself raw. I saw your knees. I bet your legs are worse. Just come out now and eat something and if you don’t feel better you can go back in. Stay in here all night for all I care.”

 

“I can’t reach the towel,” she told him feebly.

 

“I can’t _see_ the towels.”

 

“On your left. No, that’s your cloak. A little over.”

 

His fingers brushed up against scratchy fabric and he grabbed at it eagerly. Blindly, he held it out in the direction of the tub. Water moved and then it was removed from his hand. He remained silent, listening to her huff as she scrubbed herself, and then held out his hand. Nothing happened for a moment or two and then her hand, strangely cold despite the temperature of her bath, grasped onto his. She tightened her grip as she stepped out of the tub and proceeded to cling to him as he led her out of the bathroom.

 

He kept his eyes shut until he crossed into the other room but still did not look at her.

 

“Does it bother you to have me touching you?” he asked out of some sort of perverse curiousity, pulling her in the direction of her bedroom. He waited until she was sitting on her bed and then went about finding her some pajamas. “If it does, I won’t. I might have been able to levitate you in here. I don’t know.”

 

“No,” she replied, taking the pajamas he offered, “it’s okay. I doubt you could have levitated me anyway.”

 

Despite her tears, she offered him a weak smile and he smiled back before going into the sitting area to fetch the food he’d found. When he re-entered her room, she had gotten under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. He smirked at how very crimson they were before handing her the apple.

 

“Do you think this constitutes a truce?” she asked around her first bite.

 

He shrugged, dimming the lights with a flick of his wand. “I’m not sure I believe in truces, Granger.”

 

“I do, Malfoy. I believe in truces.”

 

“Always looking for the silver lining, you Gryffindors. Sometimes there isn’t one. Sometimes all there is is darkness.”

 

She sighed and made a face so forlorn it almost frightened him. “Tonight I almost believe you.”

 

Wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands, she laid down and blinked at him. He hovered uncertainly by the side of her bed and debated leaving. His own eyes felt heavier than he could ever remember them feeling and he was rapidly becoming afraid of dropping where he stood.

 

“Draco?”

 

The sound of his first name shocked him. He thought of future letters to his father and of silly little girls bleeding in the woods and felt lower than dirt but he stayed his step long enough to reply with, “What _now_?”

 

“Will… will you sit with me for a minute? Just a minute.”

 

Bloody hell. Bloody _hell_. His father should never have hinted at a plan for Granger. His father should have known any plans involving Draco even remotely always backfired. “I have to tell my father,” he wanted to say. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and moved to sit on the bed beside her. She inched over infinitesimally and he was much too tired to do anything other than slump rather helplessly against her headboard. He started when he felt her hand curl around his and fought against the urge to withdraw it. Rather, he fought against the lack of an urge. He was just so damned tired.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered and _fuck_ but anything other than that, “Thank you for not leaving me.”

 

“I’m only fixing you up so that I can do you in later,” Draco said and damn him to hell anyway but he sounded panicked.

 

She made a noise that might have been a laugh under any other circumstance. Nuzzled down into her pillow and fought to keep her eyes open. “You’re different than he was, Draco. You don’t feel like him.”

 

“Should hope not. That… that isn’t exactly my specialty.”

 

“I know. Too uncivilized when you can tear me to shreds with words. _Merlin_ , I wish-”

 

Her tears cut her off. Sighing, he tugged her hand closer and was surprised when the rest of her came with it. Awkwardly, he put his arms around her and that seemed to be enough. She clung to him for all she was worth, face smashed into his chest, and cried as though he had suddenly turned into Harry, as if he was the only friend she had in the whole entire universe. Novel concept. Silly fool, only he was hugging her back and he wasn’t moving. Didn’t move at all in fact until her tears had tapered off and were replaced with an evenness of breath that suggested sleep had finally claimed her. Only then did he extract himself from her grasp, leaning over to make sure the blankets covered her entirely once he was on his feet.

 

Feeling much older than his mere seventeen years, he put her chocolate bars on her bedside table and collected his cloak from the bathroom. There was water all over the floor and the tub was still full; he drained it and cleared away the mess with a whispered spell. He noticed blood on the sleeve of his cloak and sighed wearily.

 

When he was content that everything was as he had found it, he moved to the door. A quick glance down the corridor ensured the trip to his own room would be uneventful, praise whoever the hell was looking over him right now.

 

Clutching his cloak tightly, he took one last glance at her empty sitting room and whispered, “Don’t trust me too much, Granger.”

 

Then he was gone.

 

 

**To be continued...**

 

Next bit: All is not as it seems. Hermione's world continues to crash around her and Draco receives an unexpected visitor.

 

You can find the rest of the chapters [here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html). :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a WIP. I have all the parts already written. :) I tried this new thing called writing it out on paper and that went much faster for some reason. I’m trying to post them as soon as I can. Stupid typing!

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From the Dark  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : Definitely a hard R later on. Still… not so much.  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding.  
 **Chapter Summary** : And then there was the fall out. I lied. Never believe anything I say, but it ended up being over 20 pages when I typed it so I decided Draco’s visitor was better suited to the next chapter.  
 **Author's Notes** : Not a WIP. I have all the parts already written. :) I tried this new thing called writing it out on paper and that went much faster for some reason. I’m trying to post them as soon as I can. Stupid typing!  
 **Dedication** : To [](http://macondo.livejournal.com/profile)[**macondo**](http://macondo.livejournal.com/) because I am thinking of you and [](http://juju-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**juju_bean**](http://juju-bean.livejournal.com/) because I want to see those icons!  
 **Disclaimer** : JKR’s characters and the title comes from the song of the same name by Azure Ray.

 

****

**  
**

Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark: Part Two

**  
  
**

 

_“I have seen your face  
Light in the stars. It was then that I knew  
That your heart was pure, that it had not yet been destroyed.”_  
\- Azure Ray’s “Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark”

 

And then it was simply as though nothing had happened.  


Draco had managed somehow to haul himself out of bed at the ungodly hour of six thirty in the morning; had stared at his puffed up sleep deprived eyes in the mirror with weary disdain until he had been reduced to using a concealment charm on them. Even then, his eyes were nothing more than gray slits and his headache hadn’t abated in the least.

 

He had worked on his letter to his father for the next half an hour. His rooms, once as neat as Granger’s (oh fine, _almost_ as neat as Granger’s), were littered with cast off sheets of paper and he had actually broken a quill out of frustration. He had tried for the first bit to recount exactly what had happened but that felt like a violation on Granger somehow and so had then attempted to be vague. In the end, he settled for short and succinct: “Found Granger. Assumed was not wanted dead and so did not leave in forest. Hopefully have not disappointed. Please advise. Your son, D.M.” Lucius Malfoy wasn’t much for words anyway.

 

The letter currently felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket as he made himself comfortable at his normal seat in the Great Hall. His normal seat was a sore spot on his pride and he cast an irritated glance at the seat smack in the middle of the table, the centre of attention for all of the Slytherins. Blaise Zabini occupied it currently and _oh_ but it did rub to be usurped. Not that he was, of course. Oh no. He _adored_ sitting on the end of the bench, separated by his fellow housemates by a good two feet. Who on earth would want to sit anywhere near Crabbe anyway? Surely not he.

 

“Late night last night, Draco?” asked Pansy, punching his arm as she passed him, “Love to know with whom. Wasn’t that little Ravenclaw, was it? Isabella something or another?” And she smacked her lips at him, batting her eyelashes prettily.

 

Merlin bless Pansy Parkinson. His whole ungrateful House might be ignoring him or being nice out of fear but not her. Despite the fact that she was on her way to take her seat beside Zabini, he thought rather approvingly that she was the only one confident enough out of the whole lot of them to honestly not giving a flying fuck what anyone thought about her or those she chose to associate with. She was pretty in a dark cold sort of way and almost intelligent enough to rival himself. Pity it would never have worked for them outside of friendship.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Parkinson,” Draco replied honestly, casting a glance at the Gryffindor table. It was notably lacking its notorious Head Girl. His throat felt oddly blocked all of a sudden and he cleared it loudly as he moved his gaze to the entrance.

 

“A Gryffindor?!” Pansy exclaimed, “You’re kidding me. Which one? Come on now! You must tell me.”

 

Odd, he thought, how everything was the same and yet so very different. The She Weasel hadn’t even noticed Granger’s absence yet. Everyone was chattering on as if last night had never even occurred… which to them it hadn’t in all fairness. Bloody idiots, he scornfully noted, the whole lot of them. Seemed odd to think that just yesterday he had been wasting his time fancying Isabella what’s-her-name when there was so much more to worry about today. Casually, he dropped a hand into his pocket and felt for his letter.

 

He hoped Granger was still sleeping and not trying to drown herself in the bathtub again.

 

Leaning back so that he could see Pansy’s look of sham-horror, he said, “I guess you could say I did spend some time with a Gryffindor last night and, no, I’m not telling you who she was.”

 

She shot up an eyebrow and crinkled her nose and he wondered what would have happened if it had been Pansy in the forest. Surely she would have cursed anyone who dared to lift a finger against her but maybe not. Not if she’d been stupefied and scared. Abruptly, he pictured her cowering in the snow, perfectly straight locks of hair mussed and bleeding from a carved Dark Mark on her arm. Skirts torn and sobbing; hand cold in his as he helped her out of the tub later on.

 

Merlin. Pansy had been one of his only friends since childhood. He would absolutely without a doubt _kill_ anyone who dared touch her. And he would not tell his father anything about it if she hadn’t wished it. Not a single word. He clenched the letter in his pocket, intent on destruction, but only for a second. Wasn’t Parkinson, after all. It was merely Granger and he-

 

He was absolutely positively sick of thinking about it. And literally sick remembering it.

 

Oblivious, Pansy laughed at the look on his face. “Was she that bad then? Oh Draco, you wicked thing, when will you ever learn?”

 

He smiled uneasily and withdrew his hand from his pocket, although he imagined he could feel the letter against his thigh.

 

“Sorry to disappoint, pet,” he responded dryly, “I’m insufferably slow.”

 

She shook her head at him in a familiar chastising way and, with a flutter of her hand, moved to sit by Zabini. He watched her dish herself up some breakfast and tried to renew interest in his own half peeled orange.

 

Pansy Parkinson would have told him who had done it.

 

It was only because he was staring at the entrance as he finished up with the peel that he noticed Granger enter. He was surprised to see her as he had not found his way back into his room until nearly three and, tired though he was, he was smart enough to know that he had absolutely nothing on her.

 

Posture stooped and head hung low, she made her way to her usual seat at the table. She did not look at him when she said something to the She Weasel but he saw her wooden smile and was adept enough at lip reading to guess that she said, “Was up studying. You know me! There simply aren’t enough hours in the day for all of the work there is to be done.” Her friend rolled her eyes dismissively, bored at the mere thought of studying, and Draco wanted to smack each and every Gryffindor upside the head. Didn’t they know her at all? Couldn’t they see that her usual flounce and bounce attitude was missing? Bloody hell, they were bigger idiots than he thought. He wanted to shout, “Look at her, you blind morons! Just look at her!” For some reason, it disturbed him that no one was, not really.

 

Sighing to himself, he flung his orange peels at his plate and began to break it into quarters. He desperately desperately needed more coffee but apparently no one was looking at him either because all of his attempts at requesting it were ignored. The nerve! Merlin, he hated it here. Hated every bloody second. Whipping out his wand, he levitated it in his direction and poured himself a cup so full it almost overflowed when he stirred in a single teaspoon of sugar. He couldn’t bloody wait until his father got him back in with Voldemort. When he took the Mark and his righteous place as a Malfoy, all of these fools would tremble before him.

 

Ruined skin, warm blood, and a shaky voice saying, “The Muggle way for a dirty Mudblood” rushed through his mind and suddenly he did not have the appetite for his orange.

 

When he glanced up from his plate, Pansy was staring at him, her forehead marred with confusion. She mouthed, “Are you alright?” to which he replied with an irritated nod. Then he looked back at Granger.

 

He did so just in time to see Dean Thomas move to touch her arm to get her attention, did so just in time to see Granger leap to her feet and barely restrain herself from slapping him soundly across the face. She glanced at her hand, frozen in the air, and he could see her chest rising and falling in rapid succession all the way from his own seat. Instinctively, she moved her hands to clutch at the bodice of her robes and Draco felt almost certain that she was about to cry.

 

“I’m sorry,” he watched her say, “I-I don’t know what’s come over me. With the upcoming NEWTs…”

 

She trailed off feebly, gaze skittering here and there as she waited for Dean’s reaction. Draco watched her eyes flick off this and that and then they were locked onto his own. She looked uncomfortable and desperate, half like she might go to him and half like she might throw her breakfast in his general vicinity for the offense of knowing her secret. He rather hoped she wouldn’t come to him, rather hoped too that she wouldn’t throw anything else. Granger did not disappoint. She held his gaze for a moment more and then, arms crossed, turned back to Dean.

 

Dean’s lips read, “Sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

Draco noticed he did not try to touch her again.

 

Granger nodded absently and reached out to grab a piece of fruit. Her hand closed around an apple and again she glanced up at Draco. Holding it up in a mock salute, she inclined her head ever so slightly, turned on her heels, and left the Great Hall. Her friends, he noticed, did nothing but stare after her in baffled confusion. Potty and Weasley would never have let her take off in that manner, he thought.

 

Groaning, he decided to pocket an apple of his own as he pushed his way away from the table. Conversation on the Slytherin end of things was hardly entertaining and he had a missive to leave in a tree.

 

**

 

Draco was never sure what compelled him to revisit the scene of the crime. He had read somewhere once that most seasoned criminals liked to go back to where it happened; liked to stand in the spot where their victim had perished and think to themselves how very god like they were. He had never understood that himself. Not once had he gone back to the exact spot in the Astronomy Tower where… where-

 

Well, he hadn’t gone back anyway.

 

Moreover, he was not the seasoned criminal in this case but then neither was he the victim. He supposed he was more or less a victim of circumstance and felt rather like he was stuck in some sort of whirlpool that he didn’t have the strength to pull himself out of. Thinking about the night previous did nothing but cause a knot of panic in his belly and he absolutely couldn’t bloody wait until his father got back to him. He hated this blind not knowing. And he didn’t know. Had no bloody clue how to proceed.

 

In the light of day, it was clear that quite the struggle had gone on there. Branches had been snapped off of trees; a bush nearest to where she had been lying clung to pieces of her cloak left behind. The snow was stamped down, by him, Hermione, and whoever had done it, and there wasn’t nearly as much blood as he had thought last night. Most of it had pooled around the Granger shaped imprint and he kicked fresh snow at it to cover it up.

 

Running a hand through his hair, he sat down beside the imprint and ignored the wet that was seeping through his trousers from the snow underneath. He was just so _confused_. Granger was a smart girl and so they must have laid some sort of trap for her. What he couldn’t believe though was how easily she’d walked right into it. What had compelled her to leave the safety of the castle? Why on earth had she ventured into the Forbidden Forest at night? Draco felt that after everything he had done last night he deserved at least that much in the way of answers.

 

He told himself he was okay not knowing who had done it. Crabbe or Goyle Senior, perhaps. They seemed brutish enough for it. Simple enough not to think of a more clever way of getting at her too. Perhaps it had been Parkinson but he had known the man most of his life and, despite his spitfire of a daughter, Parkinson had always been a meek sort of fellow. Was it all merely an act to cover up what he was really like on the inside?

 

Did Draco really want to know?

 

Groaning, he snapped a branch of the bush behind him and hurled it as far ahead of him as he could. It landed with a snap not even a few feet in front of him and he glared at it. He had been kicked off of his Quidditch team at the start of the term without so much as a by your leave and his lack of athletic activities was clearly showing. Bloody wankers, thinking they could win the-

 

His discarded twig had landed beside something half propped up into the snow, as though it had been jabbed there in the heat of the moment. Now what on earth… Pushing himself off of the ground, he sauntered over to it and squatted down for a better look.

 

“Hello Granger’s wand,” he mumbled, yanking it out of the snow. It came with some ice and he smacked it a couple times against his shoe to rid it of the evidence of its outdoor stay. It was a pity she had dropped it, he supposed, from her point of view. The girl was absolutely mad when it came to her ability to cast spells and he just _knew_ that if she hadn’t been so surprised and so… well, stupefied, that their random Death Eater would never have stood a chance. It was a lucky break catching her unawares. Still, he was rather disappointed that she hadn’t gotten a single shot off. Seemed she deserved at least that much.

 

Sighing, he pocketed her wand and stood back up. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone but it stood to reason that if he didn’t hustle back he’d be late for Advanced Arithmancy. Granger had that class with him as well and he could return her wand there without having to go through the hassle of actually visiting her rooms. He was also rather curious as to her wellbeing, purely for the sake of making sure the plan was working of course. She’d been an absolute mess at breakfast.

 

Taking one last look at the Granger shaped imprint in the snow, he straightened his posture and began to make his way out of the woods.

 

**

 

Since none of his plans ever went accordingly, Draco wasn’t exactly surprised not to see Granger in Advanced Arithmancy. He was a little shocked not to see her in Potions afterwards- this _was_ Granger after all- and by the time dinner rolled around and she was absent still from the Great Hall he was starting to wonder whether or not she’d packed up and gone home.

 

He wasn’t worried about her obviously. It was just such a waste of his _time_ having to clean up after her and such last night if she wasn’t going to bounce around all over the place being her irritating know-it-all self. That aside, he had a strange feeling that the plan for Granger had just begun and it was hard to keep track of things when she wasn’t around.

 

The next day rolled around and then another and he _really_ didn’t want to go have to go to her rooms to deliver her wand personally. He hoped she wasn’t just sitting up there crying. Seemed a bit pathetic, even for her.

 

Or the fourth day he stopped Pansy on her way to her seat by Zabini at breakfast.

 

“Heard anything about our erstwhile Head Girl?” he asked, pulling on her arm hard enough that she scowled and sat down beside him. Off of the strange look she gave him, he felt compelled to add, “I’ve been working on this hex, you see. It’s bloody brilliant only I can’t _find_ her.”

 

Pansy’s eyes lit up at the word ‘hex’ and she smiled at him rather deviously. “What sort of hex? Do you any help executing it?”

 

“Of course not,” he snapped, “and it would ruin the surprise utterly if I told you. Have you seen her or not?”

 

Pansy, obviously deciding to just eat where she had more or less fallen, reached around him to make a rather rude grab at a hard boiled egg. Rapping it smartly with a spoon, she began to peel off the shell while gazing at him a little too astutely.

 

“Don’t tell me you were with the Mudblood the other day,” she commented, “Oh, Draco, that would just be too much. You couldn’t possibly expect me to keep that a secret! If you’re trying to get yourself back in with everyone, I assure you that that is completely the wrong way of going about it.”

 

He scowled at her. “Don’t know why I’d want back in with your sorry lot anyway. You’re all nothing but a bunch of boring Potter lovers now. Complete waste of my time. And I most certainly was _not_ with Granger. She’s a bit too all over the place for my tastes.”

 

She smiled at him abruptly, like she knew something he didn’t. He didn’t like the look on her face. It made him distinctly uneasy.

 

“Well, don’t just sit there, Draco. Pass me the salt.” Once it was firmly in her hand, she added, “Strangest thing happened the other day. I was actually meaning to tell you about it. She came in to see McGonagall at the start of my Transfiguration class. Can you believe it? The silly swot actually _interrupted_ a class. And she looked _horrible_. More so than usual, I mean. Told McGonagall she had the flu or some such thing and that she was just going to try to sleep it off. McGonagall looked so worried. Couldn’t puzzle out _why_. We all get sick, right? Anyway, the old bat wanted her to go and see Pomfrey but Granger insisted against it and then she left. Haven’t seen her since. If you wanted to hex her though it might be a good time. She seemed out of sorts. Maybe she’ll be too frazzled to hex you back.”

 

“The flu,” he echoed dumbly and thought _if that is the absolute best she can come up with she is more Gryffindor that I thought_.

 

Pansy shrugged. “That’s what she said. Looked rather peaked too. Maybe if she’s sick long enough, they’ll revoke her title as Head Girl.” And she smiled gleefully.

 

Draco wondered if Pansy would have left Granger in the woods; if Pansy would have had enough stones to stare into Dumbledore’s eyes and shout, “ _Avada Kedavra_!” at the man who had been their mentor for six years, even if he hadn’t been much of a mentor in Draco’s somewhat biased opinion. For a fleeting millisecond that wreaked of cowardice, he wished she was the Malfoy. Then he bucked himself up and rose from the table.

 

“I’ve got to get to my rooms. I forgot my homework there. Try not to murder Granger too fantastically in your head. All these morbid thoughts can’t be good for you.”

 

Pansy rolled her eyes and murmured a goodbye around her mouthful of egg. He noticed that once he was a few steps away she rose and moved to sit by Blaise. And he absolutely did not care that she wasn’t going to his rooms with him to keep him company on the walk when she once might have.

 

**

 

Obviously Draco had not forgotten his homework in his room (he was rather surprised Pansy bought it, in all honesty. He was only about the least forgetful person he had ever met.). Irritation made him climb the stairs from the Great Hall at great speed, made him practically sprint down the corridors, and then he was in front of Granger’s door, slightly out of breath and frustrated beyond belief.

 

Without bothering to knock, he shouted, “Open up this instant!”

 

He heard a brief shuffling from the other side of the door and then a soft smack as something leaned up against it. He heard a hand hit it just above the knob and rather audible breathing. He felt his own heart rate pick up and he checked up and down the corridors quickly.

 

“Granger? Everything alright in there?” Please let everything be alright in there. He groped around in his pocket for his wand, found Granger’s first, and decided it would just have to do in the heat of the moment. “Are you alone?”

 

Nothing for a moment and then, “Yes, yes of course. What do you want?”

 

He scoffed. “In. I very obviously want in. Do open the door. Your Muggle manners are showing.”

 

He missed her insult but he suspected it had something to do with breeding as he did catch the word Pureblood. She hit the door above the knob again and then said, “How do I know it’s you? How do I know you aren’t Polyjuiced? Prove you’re Draco Malfoy and then we’ll see.”

 

“Prove it? What? Have you lost your mind?!” When she didn’t answer, he assumed she was serious. “Bloody hell, Granger. I really don’t want to play this bonding game.”

 

“This isn’t a bonding game, you idiot,” she hissed, “Now prove it.”

 

Draco sighed and hit the door himself. “Oh fine. Uhhh… how’s about that time in Fourth Year when I told you to hide?”

 

Silence. He could hear her shifting her weight. Finally the doorknob turned and, leaning on the door as he was, he all but fell into her room when she pulled it open. He managed to catch himself before falling at her slipper clad feet and, when he looked up, she was grinning at him rather wickedly.

 

“I was hoping you’d fall in like that,” Hermione confessed, “I’ve always wanted to see the great Draco Malfoy trip and fall.” And she laughed somewhat crazily.

 

He glared at her, although it was hard to keep it steady when he saw the state she was in. Standing before him in the ugliest pink housecoat he’d ever seen, Hermione Granger looked like she’d been to hell and back. He didn’t think her giant bush of a hairdo had been brushed in days and her eyes were red rimmed and raw. She was grinning at him like a maniac, swaying a little on her feet. It was eerie, was what it was.

 

“Try getting out more, Granger. This crazy agoraphobic thing isn’t quite working for you.”

 

“Funny. Witness Draco Malfoy’s great whit.”

 

“Stop calling me Draco Malfoy,” he ordered, sauntering into her rooms. They were, quite frankly, a mess. Surveying the discarded food wrappers he thought at least she was eating. “You’ve missed a lot of classes.”

 

“I have the flu,” she said defiantly, “You should probably leave. I’d hate for you to catch it.”

 

He looked at her dryly. “The flu. That’s only about the worst lie I have ever heard. More like you’re afraid to leave your rooms. That’s it, isn’t it?”

 

She rounded on him, crazy hair framing her face at odd angles. Looked like she was really going to give it to him too. He watched her warily as she paced back and forth, worrying her hands and glaring at him in intervals. When it was clear she wasn’t going to say anything to him, he decided to break the ice.

 

“I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed in you, Granger,” he told her, crossing his arms and lounging against the wall. He thought he must look quite at his leisure. “Thought it would take a whole hell of a lot more than _that_ to send Harry Potter’s brave little friend into hiding. Look at you, cowering in your rooms like a beaten house-elf. Bravo, darling. Bravo.”

 

“A whole hell of a lot more than that?!” she echoed, up in his face so quickly that he started in surprise. “A whole hell of a lot more than that?!”

 

And she slapped him hard, right across the mouth. He shut his eyes against the flash of pain and resisted the urge to bite his lip. Well, at least he’d deserved it. He smiled at her.

 

“That’s better, now isn’t it?” he asked, “There’s the little spitfire we all know and loathe.”

 

She laughed, all high pitched and unstable, before plopping down onto the couch and letting her head fall into her hands.

 

“I don’t even have my wand,” she told the floor, “I don’t even have my wand! I’m alive for a reason, Malfoy, and if you think they’re not going to try again… I don’t even have my wand!”

 

“About that…” And he pulled it from his pocket.

 

Granger looked like it was Christmas and Easter all rolled into one pathetic happy go lucky holiday. He felt a little bit like gagging at the way she lit up but perhaps a little proud too. It had been a long time since anybody had out and out beamed at him.

 

“My wand! You crazy little bugger, you brought me my wand!”

 

He watched as she snatched it out of his hand to run her fingers appreciatively up and down its wooden surface. When she glanced up at him, she was smiling and her eyes were bright with tears. He took a step backwards.

 

“Oh now none of that crying, Granger. I’ve seen enough of your tears to last me a lifetime. I was in the area. I saw it lying on the ground. Brought it back. Very exciting story really, riveting until the very end, and-”

 

“Thank you,” she choked out before ramming the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh Merlin look at me! This is why I can’t leave the room. I almost took Dean Thomas out at breakfast that first day, did you see? They’re just… they’re all _touching_ me. I can’t stand them touching me.”

 

“Yeah, I saw. You almost slapped him too. Getting good at that, you are.”

 

She half smiled at him and motioned vaguely at his mouth. “Sorry about that.”

 

He shrugged it off and moved to sit beside her. “Oh, don’t be. I said a pretty nasty thing. Give me your hand.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up so high that they almost disappeared into her hairline. She shrunk back in the cushions away from him and he noticed her knuckles whiten on her wand.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Granger. Just give me your hand. I want to show you something.”

 

At another time or another place it might have amused him to watch her internal battle. At long last, she held out her right hand. He grabbed it up before she had a chance to change her mind and, since he knew she was watching it, didn’t bother to describe what he was about to do. Chewing on his lip, he balled her fingers into a fist and yanked her thumb out of the pile to rest just below her clenched knuckles.

 

“A slap is all well and good,” Draco told her, “but this’ll hurt more. Come on. Hit me.”

 

Granger blinked at him and waved her fist about in a manner that wasn’t at all threatening. “What? I don’t want to hit you. I already did.”

 

“Nonsense. That was nothing. Look, if I clench my stomach muscles I’ll hardly even feel it. Let me have it. Right there. Right in the gut.”

 

“What? Draco, no!”

 

“No? Did you tell me no, you filthy Mudblood? I bet you told him no too right before he-”

 

With a little cry of outrage, she pulled back her arm and sent her fist flying at his stomach. He grunted at the impact before smiling at her outrage reddened face.

 

“Good girl. Almost felt that. Pull back a bit further next time and move faster.”

 

She smiled back at him and looked somewhat proud of herself. “Really! I like that better I think. Call me Mudblood again and I’ll plant you a facer.”

 

That startled a laugh out of him. Smacked his knee and everything. “That’s how I learned. First time I met Crabbe he took objection to my wit and really let me have it. I think I disgusted him with how fast I dropped because once my governess cleaned me up he showed me how it was done.”

 

“He took objection to your wit?” she asked, smile turning mocking, “Oh, I can’t imagine that.”

 

“Me neither frankly. If he… well, if he tries _that_ again, you might want to try kneeing him in the groin if you can get your leg free.”

 

Hermione blanched at that and looked away from him. To his alarm, he noticed that her bottom lip was beginning to quiver. He was debating the pros and cons of patting her arm when she turned back to face him, eyes bright and smile empty.

 

“Do you suppose I can try that on you too then? I dearly love to practice, Draco.”

 

The pros (the cons? He wasn’t sure) won out and he patted at her arm in a friendly sort of way before rising. “Good then. You have learned how to give somebody a good thrashing and I have proven that you didn’t undo all of my hard work by dying in the last four days. I’ll see you in class tomorrow then?”

 

She nodded, absently picking at an imaginary piece of lint on her god awful housecoat. “Maybe. I’ll see how I feel.”

 

“Good. Good. That’s good.”

 

Awkwardly, he raised his hand in farewell and made his way to the door. Once it was open, he put his hand on the frame and turned back to face her.

 

“Didn’t mean it,” he told her, “What I said earlier, about you disappointing me. You’re setting yourself up well to go down in a blaze of glory, just like you should.”

 

“Thanks… I think.” And she looked at him strangely.

 

“Don’t mention it,” was his uncomfortable reply, “Well… this has been pleasant but I have classes to get to. Rumor has it to the top student has the flu and I have every intention of usurping her in her absence.”

 

He slammed the door on her shouted, “In your dreams, Malfoy!”

 

**

 

When Draco returned to his rooms after dinner it was to the sound of an owl tapping furiously at his window. Confused, he deposited his bag by the door and went to undo the latch. It was a fairly common owl, non-descript and just like every other one employed at Hogwarts, but he still pulled his wand out of his pocket on the way to the window. After all, who could be sending him an owl? The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he swore that he hadn’t always been that jumpy.

 

The owl hooted at him impatiently when he pushed the window open and he scowled at it for good measure. The letter it was carrying was on plain white paper. Nothing fantastic there either. Nodding his thanks, he took it, shut the window, and walked to his own couch. Counted to ten for whatever reason before opening it.

 

His father’s writing stared back at him. Excitement mixed with an unhealthy amount of dread raced through Draco’s veins. Finally he was about to get some instruction on what to do. Finally the problem of Granger was not his alone to bear. And he was _not_ afraid of finding out what those instructions were.

 

In the end he was relieved. In the end he was let down. In truth he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he’d been expecting. _Horrible mix up with Granger’s plan, son. You know how it is with those more plebian Death Eaters. Can’t control their unnatural urges._ Or perhaps something more direct, something along the lines of _Draco, my boy, now that Granger has been defiled her death is imminent. Please expect an army of Death Eaters at exactly two pm tomorrow. For Merlin’s sake, keep McGonagall out of the way._

 

Obviously he was crazy firstly because Lucius Malfoy had never once called him “Draco, my boy” and secondly because… well, because when he read the note he was just wrong, as plain and simple as that. It read:

 

“Well done with G. Plan in motion. G. seems to trust you to some extent. Do not give her reason to doubt. Keep in touch as to her mental state. Think you will be pleased with final plan. Will let you know via owl as plan progresses. Too dangerous in Forest. Do not disappoint me. L.M.”

 

He scoffed at the paper which, right on cue, caught fire in his hands. Swearing, he leaned over and dropped it in the grate of the fireplace before wiping his fingers off on his robes.

 

Well done? Plan in motion? What in the bloody hell! Obviously the sodding plan was in motion. Even Goyle could have figured that out. Silly bint could hardly have raped herself. _Those_ were his instructions?

 

Practically spitting with disappointment, Draco leapt off of the couch and began to pace. Even his bloody father wouldn’t tell him who had done it, who had had the dubious honour of spoiling Granger. And his part? Voldemort expected him to _tattle_ on her like some blasted first year! Oh this was rich. This took the bloody cake. Keep Draco in the dark! What a marvelously fun game!

 

He was so mad it took a moment or two to register that the owl was still perched expectantly on his windowsill.

 

“So you want a reply do you, you filthy creature?” he spit at it, “Oh, bloody brilliant!”

 

Scowling, he stalked to his desk and pulled out a blank piece of parchment only to stare at it blindly for a couple of seconds. At long last, he lifted his quill and began to write.

 

“G. doing as well as can be expected,” he scrawled and it was out of some sort of sick defiance that made him continue with, “Currently has flu possibly caused by night air. Please advise as to what the plan actually is. D.M.”

 

Once the blasted owl had vacated his window sill, he sat back down on the couch and stared at the wall in brooding silence. At least his father had said well done. Praise from Lucius Malfoy was rare indeed and as soon as he realized that he regretted the snippy tone of his letter. Perhaps he should have divulged more. Perhaps he should have told him that she hadn’t left her rooms in nearly a week. That was surely the sort of news Lucius had been expected, not some full fledged lie about the flu. Oh bloody hell. He’d gone and bollixed it up now for sure.

 

_You wouldn’t tell your father that if it was Pansy Parkinson. You wouldn’t tell him a bloody thing._

 

“Yes I would have!” he shouted at the empty space around him, “Yes I would have! When Lucius Malfoy says talk you talk! I don’t give a fuck that it’s Granger!”

 

And he hurled his wand at the wall for good measure.

 

“I don’t,” he repeated, “I really really don’t.”

 

Frowning, he rose and stalked to his bedroom intent on taking a nap. He had always liked naps. They gave him perspective. They helped clear his head. When he awoke, he was certain he would know just what to do.

 

**

 

_The corridor was dark and Draco would not have been able to make his way down it unguided. As it was, a warm hand was gripping his own and he could just make out Pansy Parkinson’s back in front of him._

__

 

_“Are you excited, Draco?” she whispered over her shoulder, “Tonight’s the night.”_

__

 

_Looking at her smirk and heavy lidded gaze, he thought excitement was a bit of an understatement. Anticipation quickened his blood and he increased his pace until he was close enough behind her to run his knuckles across her waist. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and leaned her head backwards until it fell against his shoulder. He tightened his grip on her, snaking his hand around until it rested on her stomach. He was pleased to note that when he spread his fingers one could brush against the top of her skirt while his thumb could feel the barest hint of the underside of her breasts. His breath was coming in short harsh gulps and he felt his cheeks redden. Pansy smirked up at him._

__

 

_“Don’t get too excited, darling,” she purred, rising on her tiptoes to press a chaste kiss on his jaw, “It’ll spoil the surprise.”_

__

 

_He raised an eyebrow at her and tried for his patented smirk. “A surprise? Oh I do hope it’s a naughty one.”_

__

 

_She giggled and spun around to face him. He lost his grip on her waist but was rewarded when his hands found purchase on her bottom. Simpering now, she rocked forward and pressed herself flush up against him._

__

 

_“Shall I show you?” Pansy asked._

__

 

_Without waiting for an answer, she placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled his face down towards hers. Mouth inches from his own, she added, “You mustn’t look until I say so.”_

__

 

_“Bossy, Pansy,” he drawled, “Lucky for you I rather like that.”_

__

 

_“Lucky for me indeed.”_

__

 

_Her hand covered his eyes and she extracted herself enough to pull them both forward a couple of steps. He heard a door open and close and then something else, something he couldn’t make out without the benefit of sight. It was not much of a sound, a small whimpering… rather like a wounded animal._

__

 

_“Are you ready, Draco?”_

__

 

_Ready or not, she withdrew her hand and stepped out of his way. There before him was a bed and, more importantly, a strange faceless girl with bound wrists and ankles laying on top of it. The noise had been coming from her, he was quick to surmise, and it was indeed whimpering. Upon seeing him, the girl began to struggle in earnest, straining herself against the ropes holding her in place. From behind him, Pansy began to giggle._

__

 

_“What’s this?” he snapped, eyes locked on the girl, “What sort of game are you playing at?”_

__

 

_“Do you like her?” was Pansy’s question. She danced away from him and went to the bed, sitting down beside the girl. Smirking at Draco, Pansy pushed the girl’s hair off of her face and ran a finger down her cheek. “I’ve got her just for you. A present.”_

__

 

_She was behind him in a flash; he could feel her breath against the back of his neck. He was about to tell her that no, he did not like her when she shoved him hard in the direction of the girl. He stumbled and then went with the momentum, landing unceremoniously between the girl’s bound legs. He managed at the last possible moment to catch the majority of his weight on his elbows._

__

 

_The girl was suddenly alive beneath him, thrashing this way and that and screaming for all she was worth. He put a hand over her mouth to make her stop and craned his neck to see Pansy._

__

 

_“What is this?” he demanded._

__

 

_“It’s your duty, Draco. Do what you have to and let me watch.”_

__

 

_“Please,” the girl was saying and he knew that voice. Would have recognized its irritating show-off sort of tone anywhere. Fear made the arm supporting his weight shake and he could feel sweat making its way down his back. “Please, Draco. Don’t do this. You’re not like this.”_

__

 

_“Granger?” he asked her weird featureless face, “Hermione?”_

__

 

_“Draco, no.” Her head thrashed against the pillow. “Please, not again.”_

__

 

_An awful hammering sound erupted from the door behind them- knocking. Someone was knocking at the door. Relief hit him so fast he almost lost his balance. Someone was knocking and they were saved._

__

 

_He caught Granger's gaze, relieved also to note that her face was starting to look real. Leaning down so that only she could hear him, he whispered, "It's going to be alright, Hermione."_

 

**

 

Draco shot up in his bed, blankets clenched in his fists and chest heaving. Momentarily confused, he looked warily about himself, half expecting some weird sex crazed Pansy to pop out from behind the curtains with a bound Granger in her arms. As soon as he realized that that wasn’t going to happen, he fell back onto his pillows and tried his damnedest not to feel dirty only it was hard when his skin felt like it was crawling.

 

His duty. Ha bloody ha at that and… _shit_. Groaning into his pillow, he flopped his arm over top of his eyes and exhaled hard. A strange gurgle of hysterical laughter escaped his lips and then he was shaking with it. It was a bad habit, one he’d always had. His father had always scoffed that when he got nervous he pranced around like a fourteen year old girl on a sugar high and Draco _hated_ when he said that but-

 

But somebody really was knocking on his door. Choking back his next not-quite laugh, Draco sat up in bed and stared cautiously at the closed door to his bedroom. The sound was muffled but definitely there. Checking the time, he realized it was almost two o’clock in the morning, much too late for casual visitors.

 

Great.

 

Pushing the covers back, he grabbed his wand and padded out of his room, cringing with each step on the cold floor. Should have grabbed slippers. Should have grabbed his robes. He was sure he looked anything but menacing in plaid shorts and an old shirt of all things. Merlin, he probably looked like a Muggle.

 

Stopping in front of the door, he pointed his wand at it and shouted, “Who’s there?”

 

“Draco?” Granger, just bloody brilliant. “Can I come in?”

 

He glanced around his rooms, irritated for some unknown reason. His dream danced through his mind and he smashed a hand into his eyes, rubbing them hard. His cheeks felt hot and if he _saw_ her…

 

Scoffing, he pulled the door open.

 

“And to what do I owe this honour?” he asked dryly.

 

“You didn’t make me prove it,” she pointed out, crossing her arms, “I could have been anybody.”

 

He made a vague gesture with his wand and she smirked before raising a fist and an eyebrow simultaneously. He might have thought her teasing if she had not worsened noticeably since that afternoon. She had obviously just finished up with a good cry- her cheeks were still damp- and she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze. At the very least her pajamas were worse than his. Groaning, he lowered his wand and pushed a hand through his hair. Granger pushed right on passed him.

 

“Oh, by all means, do come in.”

 

She sighed at that before walking to his couch and seating herself. Figuring they were in for the long haul, Draco scowled and took a seat beside her. Granger was clearly without manners. Without further ado, she scooted around to face him and pulled her knees up to her chest, bare feet up all over his couch. Draco was aghast.

 

“You didn’t wear shoes here,” he pointed out rather stupidly.

 

She shrugged. “I came in a hurry. I… I had a dream.”

 

“Must be something in the air.” A pause and then, “Oh fine. _What_ was yours?”

 

“I dreamt he was in my room. I dreamt I was sleeping and he made it in here somehow. He was waiting for me when I came back from class and he pinned me down on the bed and… and…” She took in a huge gulp of air and began to toy with the hem of her pajama pants. “And then he killed me afterwards. Or he was about to. I woke up before he said it.” A tiny sniffle and her story was done.

 

It occurred to Draco abruptly that his father was asking him to walk a rather fine line. How on earth was he ever supposed to get Granger to continue to confide in him and not get personally involved? He was starting to think he didn’t have the heart for any of it and that was an unsettling thought indeed. He should have wanted to dance on her grave. Instead, he was rather dreading describing her dream to his father.

 

Uncomfortable now, he said, “Only a dream, Granger. Nothing to get all worked up about.”

 

“I know,” she replied, “I really do know that. I _hated_ Divinations and I don’t believe that dreams can foretell the future but what if I’m wrong? I’ve been wrong before. It’s why I don’t want to leave my rooms. What if he’s there waiting for me when I get back, Draco? Punching is all well and good and it’s nice to have my wand but I had it before and-”

 

He silenced her with a look. “You left your rooms to come here.”

 

Granger looked uncomfortable at that and it was a nice switch. Sighing, she leaned a little bit closer to him and lowered her voice.

 

“It’s because you’re the only who knows and I couldn’t bear to stay in there any longer. I’m sorry to unload on you, Draco.”

 

He patted at her arm and tut-tutted her. “Nonsense. I’m sure you love unloading on me. Let’s bring Draco down with me! Isn’t that right?”

 

To his complete and utter horror, she shook her head at that and burst into tears. Reached out and grabbed onto his hand. He intertwined their fingers and tried his hardest not to think of his dream.

 

“Oh come on, Granger, I was only joking. Unload away! In case you haven’t noticed I’m hardly the most popular person in school this year. It’s a nice switch maybe even.” Even if he did feel a little dirty saying it.

 

She sniffed and nodded her head. Dropped his hand to curl her own around her knees.

 

“You think he’s going to come back, don’t you?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously, “It’s why you said all that about punching and going down in a blaze of glory.”

 

“Of course I think he’s going to come back. I doubt he’s finished with you. Oh please don’t cry anymore, Granger. That’s why you’ve got to be ready. And I know you, unfortunately for us both. You’re going to get yourself out of this slump and go research a million ways to kill him. You know you are. Don’t lie.”

 

Granger smiled at him somewhat sadly. “In the end, Draco, I don’t think that’s what you want.”

 

“Want? You to die or you to live?”

 

“Neither. I wasn’t talking about that. I don’t think you know about that either. I was talking about him.”

 

“A million ways of killing him? Funny that, Granger. I rather _do_. Some things are just despicable.”

 

She smiled at him again in that same slightly condescending way and he felt prickles of unease work their way up his spine. He had an awful feeling that there was a piece of the puzzle he wasn’t seeing and that that piece would lead to all of the answers. He clenched his eyes shut against a wave of frustration. Decided, however unfairly, to take it out on Granger.

 

“Well you seem better now and I’m completely knackered. Perhaps we can continue this some other time. Turn down the lights on your way out, won’t you?”

 

She looked panicked at the prospect of leaving but Draco pretended not to see it. He was too mentally exhausted to _care_ about it. It was bloody annoying was what it was, hating Granger one day and then being her sole confidante the next. Looking at her was giving him a headache. He inclined his head in her direction and exited the room, not stopping until he was all cozied up in his own bed again. He did not have some pathetically colour schemed comforter like Granger’s. His was blue and sent from home by his mother. Pulled it up to his nose and waited for her to leave.

 

After a moment or two, the lights in his sitting area dimmed but he did not hear her open the door. Straining his ears, he waited. She was walking around, he could hear that. Pacing. And then the door opened and clicked shut.

 

Relieved, Draco closed his eyes and tried to force sleep. Back in his bed, images from his dream seemed much more realistic and-

 

Abruptly, the blankets were pulled away from him and somebody scampered in beside him. Jumping, Draco scurried away from whoever it was and groped around desperately for his lamp.

 

“Draco!” Hands reached out and grabbed hold of the edge of his shirt, pulling him back down. “It’s only me. I changed my mind. I can’t go back there. I can’t sleep in that bed.”

 

“Hermione?!” he hissed, too shocked to remember to use her surname, “I heard you leave. And what do you mean you can’t sleep there?”

 

“I never left. I opened the door and changed my mind.” She had the grace to blush at least. He could see that even in the darkness of his bedroom. “Do you mind?”

 

Did he mind? Did he _mind_?! Oh no, not at all. This was only the best thing to happen to him all night. Bloody _bloody_ hell.

 

“Not at all,” he drawled, shutting his eyes and willing it all to be an extension of his nightmare, “By all means, stay. It’ll be like a big old fashioned slumber party. We could divulge our deepest darkest secrets. It’ll be a marvelous time.”

 

He felt more than saw her melt a little in relief. There was a moment of awkwardness as he moved over to make room for her and she laid down, both of them on their backs. Their hands were touching under the covers and Draco reached out to touch her fingers more out of instinct than an actual desire to hold her hand. He could hear her breathing in the darkness combined with the thumping of his own heart. Oh, this was bad. This was very bad indeed.

 

Abruptly, she blurted, “I liked Ron right up until this summer. Then it occurred to me that it would never work with us and that we’d always be better friends.”

 

He whipped his head around on the pillow to look at her. “What?! What on earth does that have to do with anything? Make sense.”

 

“You said we were going to divulge our deepest darkest secrets,” she said with a shrug, “That’s mine.”

 

Draco laughed at her. “That was it? Merlin, how boring! Everybody knew that anyway.”

 

She pushed her palm into his face and giggled. “Well, nobody told me! Like your secret could possibly be any better, Malfoy. Ooo, look out for me! I’m a big bad Slytherin with lots of big bad Slytherin-esque secrets! Better not tell the silly little Gryffindor!”

 

He laughed into her palm really quite genuinely and tried to peel it off his face by grabbing onto her wrist. She laughed and pushed harder, seemingly intent on smothering him, and he dropped her other hand to increase his struggle. With both of his hands free, it was really quite easy to dislodge her. She went back down onto the bed with a sigh of a giggle and actually had the audacity to poke him in the arm.

 

“I said you could sleep here,” Draco reminded primly, “I didn’t say you could manhandle my person. Remove your hands at once.”

 

She swatted at him again before covering up her own eyes. “Merlin, Draco, who would have taken you for such a prude!”

 

“Not a prude,” he protested, “I just have standards.”

 

It was at that precise moment that he realized he was sharing a bed with the Mudblood and actually had been reduced to teasing her. Abominable! Instantly he felt uncomfortable and tried to shy away closer to the edge of the bed. She was one step ahead of him however and latched onto his hand again before he could move too far. Un-bloody-believable, he thought, dismayed. His father would absolutely have his head if he could see him. It was one thing to tattle on her but another entirely to get all close and cuddly. This smacked of the beginnings of a second failure. He tried to dislodge his hand but she tightened her grip.

 

“I’m not going to tell,” Granger told him softly, “I know all about your reputation. Wouldn’t want to tarnish it… anymore than it already has been, that is.”

 

Draco shook his head and stifled a frustrated groan. At long last, he asked, “Were you this clingy with Potter and Weasley? No wonder they up and left you here.”

 

She let out a low whistle at that and smacked him again. “Hardly. If Harry was to be here now, he’d be almost crippled with guilt and I’d have to worry about him running off to avenge me. Ron would be comforting and distant in turn. He’d be too uncomfortable to be of much use, poor boy. But you… I don’t know. You’re still your snarky horrid self but well… maybe I need that.”

 

Oh Christ. “Don’t be so sure, Granger. You don’t know the half of it.”

 

She propped herself up on her elbow and stared down at him. “No, Malfoy. Don’t you be so sure. You don’t know the half of it either. I don’t care why you’re here. Maybe it is just so you can do me in later. What do I know? But it doesn’t matter.”

 

Draco had had quite enough of being kept half in the dark. Glaring at her, he asked, “Who did it, Hermione?”

 

She smiled at him sadly. “Why? Are you going to avenge me too?”

 

“Ha! Hardly,” he scoffed, “I just think that after everything-”

 

“You aren’t ready to know, Draco. I’m sorry.”

 

He was going to snap something back at her along the lines of who was she to make that decision when she exhaled loudly and cuddled into him. It was more or less an instinctual thing to turn over onto his side in order to offer her his chest to lean against, definitely more for his own comfort than anything else that he settled his arm over top of her once she’d settled in. She smelled like she’d spent the past four days in the bathtub, an odd mixed aroma of soap and tears, and he took a sniff of her hair before he realized exactly what he was doing. She sighed and placed her hand on top of his where it rested half against her waist and half against the mattress.

 

“How are you doing honestly?” he asked, voice strangely loud in the quietness of his room.

 

He felt her shrug. “I’m doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. That spell you did on me made me horribly ill. Having the flu was only a partial lie. I honestly _was_ sick the whole next day.”

 

“It made you sick? I didn’t know it would do that. Good to know, I suppose.”

 

“You’ve never cast it before?”

 

He shook his head. “No, you were my trial run. Doesn’t that just make you feel all kinds of special.”

 

They were silent for awhile, Hermione toying at his pinky finger and he trying to pretend like she wasn’t there. She was soft almost to the point of distraction and warmer than anything he’d ever felt before. He felt like a complete and utter pig noticing that about her at such a time and hoped to Merlin she couldn’t read his mind.

 

Abruptly, he asked, “Was that your first time, Hermione?” Promptly, he wanted to kick himself. It wasn’t even a question he’d been aware of wondering and how absolutely abominable of him to ask that of her! Like it was any of his business. Like this was some sort of secret sharing slumber party after all.

 

She sniffed and he felt her nod knock backwards into his chin. Unconsciously, he tightened his hold on her just as a wave of disgust brought back his headache.

 

“It doesn’t count,” he told her firmly, “It absolutely does not count. Someday someone nice- someone like the Weasel- will do it for you properly and it’ll give you something good to erase the bad. Like it never happened.”

 

“But it did happen, Draco. It did.”

 

He flipped his hand even though it put a crick in his arm and caught onto her fingers. It seemed as though there was absolutely nothing more to say. Clinging to her rather absurdly, he shut his eyes and concentrated on regulating his breathing. After a moment, he felt Granger do the same, her breathing perfectly synchronized with his. He was almost there when she dropped his hand and turned in the circle of his arms.

 

“Draco?” she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hmm?”

 

And then her mouth was against his, just as warm and as soft as the rest of her. He was too dumbfounded to do much of anything other than simply laying there while her lips clumsily and artlessly caressed his own. By the time he came back into himself, she was pulling away and rolling over so that she didn’t have to face him. Frowning, he covered her with his arm again.

 

“Granger? What was what?”

 

Quietly, she answered, “That was a start.”

 

He wanted to rail at her about daring to touch his pristine lips with her filthy Mudblood ones; wanted to cut her down with a wicked name or ten. His heart was hammering absurdly hard against his ribcage and he was having trouble catching his breath. The outrage! The audacity! And her hair was poking at his face, making him all manners of itchy. The silly bint had _kissed_ him!

 

“Granger?” he questioned, really rallying himself up to give it to her.

 

“Go to sleep, Malfoy,” was her answer.

 

“What? Oh. Good night, Hermione.” Or not.

 

“Good night, Draco.”

 

And he squeezed her hand for good measure, making a mental note to yell at her in the morning.

 

 

 

**Next Time:** Draco gets a visitor (honestly) and Hermione gets a present.

[Part One](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/88443.html#cutid1)


	3. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Three: Part One  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : In which the isolation begins.  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters. Please see the Author's Note at the end of the chapter for more information on things. :)  
 **Previous parts can be found[here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).**

 

  


  
_Someone else’s boy, though your life has been short,_  
You’ve seen more pain than most of us know.  
If you make it through this, vacuum up the mess,  
Smile to yourself, lying on your nice new clean floor.  
-Azure Ray’s “Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark”

 

 

 

 

When Draco Malfoy awoke the next morning, it was too a mouthful of curls and some distinctly feminine snoring. Spluttering, he dislodged his arm gently from underneath Hermione’s body and waggled his fingers to get the blood flowing. Then he pulled her hair from his mouth and took in a few welcome gulps of air. Granger made a sound that was horrifyingly close to a snort and snuggled in closer, still sleeping. Frowning, he glanced down at her.

 

In sleep the evidence of the last week was completely gone from her face. Her brows were relaxed and her mouth was open, emitting the strangest gurgle he’d ever heard. It was decidedly unattractive and completely undignified. He had to clamp a hand to his mouth to silence an absurd bubble of laughter. She scrunched her forehead at the sound and turned over, nearly shoving him off the bed with a backwards push of her bum. Taking a needlessly suspicious glance around his room, he lay back down beside her and placed a hand almost experimentally on her hip. When she didn’t wake up, he shut his eyes and, skittishly, cuddled in closer.

 

It was nice, he supposed, in spite of everything. He’d never spent a whole night in bed with a girl before, not counting childhood sleepovers at the Parkinsons’ of course. He’d always secretly thought he might hate it. There was something so deeply personal about the idea that scared the living daylights out of him. What if he snored like that? Merlin, it was only about the most embarrassing thing he could think of. Snorting at himself, he tried to settle a deep set unease about the whole thing. There was no way in hell he should be feeling anything but murderous rage towards her; instead he felt like a lecherous arse for noticing how delightfully soft she felt and how pretty her hair smelled this close up.

 

Decidedly unsettled, he rolled over hard away from her, making sure to jiggle the bed and steal half the blankets. His bum hit into hers and she came awake with a start, punching out behind her and trying to yank the blankets back. Her foot, close to his thighs already with her knee bent at the angle it was, jerked perilously close to an area he valued rather dearly. As it was, she still managed to kick his leg with a fair amount of force.

 

“Ouch, Granger, watch out!”

 

“Malfoy?” she exclaimed, peering at him over the top of the blankets she’d jerked up to her chin in the process of sitting up.

 

He sat up as well, feeling a rather strange desire to cover himself, and glared at her. His gaze softened however when he noticed that her features had crumpled into panic; that the lines around her mouth were back. She looked positively owlish and, insanely, he was sorry.

 

“I forgot where I was,” she said by way of explanation. Then, almost accusingly, “You touched me before I knew it was you.”

 

Draco scowled at her and rubbed at his cheeks, trying to wake up fully. “Yes well, seems I’ve been doing a lot of the whole comforting touching lately. Thought you were okay with it. Anyway, I didn’t mean to. Your arse got in the way. You’re hogging the bed. You snore. And you took my blanket. You’re dreadful to sleep with.” And he could shut up, any time now.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his defensiveness. “Anything else, Malfoy? And you were hardly Sleeping Beauty yourself. You talk in your sleep, did you know?”

 

“I do not!” he protested, aghast. Then he was hit with a wave of wariness, thinking of all the things he could have said. Cautiously, he asked, “But on the off chance I do, did I say anything interesting?”

 

“You were mumbling about McGonagall,” she told him, wrinkling her nose, “Honestly, Malfoy, I don’t even want to know. Perhaps you’re sicker than I thought.”

 

He felt his jaw drop open at that and couldn’t quite contain his shudder. “I’m not sure I want to know either, frankly. Good kick, by the way. A little higher and it would have hurt to high hell.”

 

She coloured a bit at that and nodded. Despite himself, he smiled at the way her hair was shooting all over the place. She made quite a pretty little picture, all rumpled and girly in the morning. Accidentally, he gave her an appreciative once over. She noticed and frowned, suspicion flitting across her features. Defensively, she crossed her arms over her breasts and looked away from him.

 

“Oh please. Like I’d want to anyway,” he snapped. And he did not blush. He did not.

 

Granger didn’t seem sure about that and for some reason it rankled. He was about to comment further with a well placed comment about the past condition of her front teeth when she hopped out of his bed and all but fled to the door. She stopped in the threshold, blinking at him like she wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.

 

“Are you coming to class today? Or even breakfast for that matter?” he asked simply to fill what was rapidly becoming an awkward silence.

 

Hermione debated that for a moment, picking at a button on her pajama top. Finally, she sighed and pulled herself up straighter. Met his gave levelly.

 

“Can’t hide in my room forever, can I?” Hermione said with so much Gryffindor bravery that he couldn’t help but feel a strange rush of pride, “I think… yes, I think I will.”

 

“Go get dressed then. I’ll walk you down.”

 

With a roll of her eyes, she said, “Such a gentleman. Who would have thought?” Then, shaking her head, she exited his rooms.

 

**

 

By the time he collected her outside of her Head Girl rooms, Draco was feeling rather alarmingly chummy towards her. He supposed it could have been expected after everything they’d been put through in the last week; her strange dependence on him couldn’t possibly be helping. He felt like they were allies of some sort and that was only so wrong that _he_ wanted to skip breakfast in order to spend all morning scrubbing out his brain. He told himself rather desperately that he was only doing this because his father had told him to watch her, because she couldn’t possibly get what she deserved cowering in her rooms all day. Obviously he didn’t care about her wellbeing. In fact, he was completely ready to serve her up on a silver platter to Voldemort that very second should it be requested of him.

 

Really. He was.

 

Sighing, Draco wiped his irritatingly damp palms on the legs of his trousers and rapped his knuckles smartly against her door. After a moment’s wait, Granger called, “Draco?”

 

He nodded, realized what a complete dolt that made him, and answered back with, “Yeah, it’s me. As for your ridiculously paranoid code, it is I, Draco Malfoy, he who apparently talks in his sleep.”

 

“Congratulations. You pass,” she answered as she opened the door and closed it behind her.

 

“Oh, what sort of prize do I get?”

 

Hermione’s laugh was so brittle that he glanced down at her. She looked scared. There was no other word for it. As they made their way down to the Great Hall, her colour became more and more pale and her footsteps slowed until he felt they were moving at a snail’s pace. She was muttering to herself under her breath, quick little snippets of sentences that he couldn’t catch, and he left her to it. If she wanted to prance around Hogwarts like a raving lunatic, that was her own business. She stopped outside the heavy wooden door and leveled him with a look of complete panic.

 

“I can’t do this.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, moving to give her a little shove in the right direction. She locked her heels in and smacked at his hands until he let her go. He noted that she was jitterier with him today than normal. Or for what was becoming normal at any rate. “You can go in there. If you don’t, I’m not walking you back to your rooms. You can just face the big bad corridors on your own.” And he smirked at her.

 

A flash of old dislike crossed her features and she made a face at him. “I don’t need you to walk me anywhere, Malfoy,” she hissed, “Besides, what’s your hurry? I bet you’re just _dying_ to go eat breakfast by yourself.”

 

“What is your problem this morning, Granger? Go in there or don’t. I frankly don’t give a damn.”

 

She said, “Just go” and sounded tired.

 

Scowling at her, Draco did just that. He slammed the door to the Great Hall right in her face for good measure and walked over to his bloody awful seat with his head held high despite the rage coursing through him. And he was just so _angry_ all of a sudden. It had been a long time since he’d been that mindlessly mad but just like that he was and for no real reason either. He stabbed the shit out of the butter before spreading some onto his bread. Pansy was watching him from beside Zabini with poorly hidden curiosity and he had to resist the urge to flip her the bird.

 

It was of course at the precise moment that a confused bunch of owls flew over the tables, dropping parcels here and there as they went. He watched the falling presents and letters with barely contained disdain and was, therefore, nearly smacked in the head with his own envelope. Growling, he flicked it off of his plate before it could become saturated in butter and egg yolk.

 

Absurdly when he picked it up his first thought was of his mother, which was positively _insane_. His mother hadn’t written once- not once- since he’d returned to Hogwarts. No one had, other than his father’s missives in that blasted tree and the owl from him last night. He realized all at once that this one must have come from him too and was alarmed by how public Lucius Malfoy was making the whole thing. It was only because he was who he was that he was able to school his features into a look of bored reluctance as he popped it open with the tip of his fingernail.

 

“Silly Isabella,” he murmured, just in case anybody was listening.

 

Making sure no one was paying him any undo attention, he pulled out the letter. This one was written in block capitals- oh how positively _sneaky_ \- and was only two lines long. It wasn’t signed but it didn’t take a genius to know exactly who the sender was and what they were talking about.

 

“Expect a little gift for her. Do let me know if she likes it,” was all that it said.

 

And there it was again. That blind fury. He actually had to blink a couple of times to contain it. It wasn’t fair. It completely wasn’t fair. He didn’t _want_ to do this. He didn’t want to spend one more agonizing second with the lippy little Mudblood and most certainly didn’t want to know what Voldemort and his crazy lackeys considered to be a present. He _highly_ doubted it was jewelry and, that aside, he absolutely did not want to know. He did not. This was ridiculous, was what it was. All Crabbe had ever had to do for Voldemort was find plump mice for his stupid snake. All Goyle had been assigned with amounted to the duties of a glorified valet. Why on earth had he had the unfortunate luck of being assigned with Dumbledore _and_ Granger? What was next? Should he expect to have to deliver Potter himself, limb by limb week by week? For fuck’s sake!

 

And what had Voldemort ever given him? His mother despised him, his father was on the run, he’d been kicked out of Quidditch, he wasn’t allowed in the Slytherin dormitories, everyone thought he was a homicidal nutcase, and up until Granger’s incident nobody but Pansy Parkinson ever even took the time to talk to him. That wasn’t even to mention the weeks of discomfort he’d had traveling with Snape, always on the look out, until being dumped rather unceremoniously on the steps of the Manor for his mother to deal with when they’d heard of Potter’s impending testimony. And Granger had cried on his shoulder! Cried on his shoulder, looked to him for help, trusted him inexplicably, and had _kissed_ him. Enough was enough! He’d been pushed around, kicked at, disrespected, and now he had a present for Granger to look forward to. Just bloody brilliant. He couldn’t wait.

 

And speak of the devil. He glared at the door as it opened and she entered, head held so high it looked like her neck might snap (and _good_ ). He watched her walk over to her friends as he skewered his egg violently with his fork, watched her sit down cautiously beside the She Weasel, who was all over her immediately with questions. He had to admire the tenacity with which she obviously ignored them; had to respect that, despite the fact that she was noticeably scared shitless to be out in the open, she was there at all.

 

Merlin send him straight to hell but he thought of the present, whatever it might be, and felt _sorry_ for her.

 

Grouchily, he turned back to his breakfast and only glanced up at her from time to time. As the minutes rolled on, Granger was very obviously wilting. She hadn’t been able to not cross her arms for longer than a few minutes and she wasn’t eating. She was leaning so far away from her fellow housemates that it was a wonder she was still on the bench. Ginny was looking rather crossly at her and Hermione looked like she was going to cry. Or crawl under the table to hide, he couldn’t fairly decide.

 

He didn’t want her to get the present, whatever it was. She was obviously only hanging on by a thread and for whatever reason he didn’t want it pulled away just yet. It was too soon. She hadn’t come back into herself. She didn’t _need_ anything else, not yet. He was all for her emotional torture- he _was_ \- but this was too soon. He was afraid this might do her in and, well, she still hadn’t gotten the small amount of revenge she deserved.

 

Sighing, he pushed his plate away and stood up. Hoped to himself that Granger could make it to Advanced Arithmancy on her own because he just couldn’t look at her for a moment longer without doing something ridiculous and rash. Without a backwards glance, he left the Great Hall.

 

**

 

It took Pansy Parkinson all the way out to the abandoned Quidditch pitch to catch up with Draco. She caught onto his arm just as he was about to climb the Slytherin stand and immediately found herself with a wand dug into her throat. She scowled at him and slapped at his wrist.

 

“Pansy Parkinson,” he greeted with a roll of his eyes, “Can’t seem to get a moment’s peace around here.”

 

He left her standing where she was and began to climb the steps. Dumbly, she trailed after him and wished that he wasn’t quite so much in one of his moods. She just knew he was climbing higher than necessary to exert her and, when she sat down beside him at last, she made sure he knew she wasn’t pleased by sending him a glare worthy of Lucius Malfoy himself.

 

“What’s going on with you?” she asked without further ado, “Something’s wrong. Is it your father? Has he been found?”

 

Draco glared at her and lobbed a ball of rolled up paper far away from them both. Pulled his cloak tighter about himself and tried to stare her down. When she wouldn’t look away, he snapped, “Nothing’s the matter. If Father had been found I’m sure you’d have read about it by now.”

 

Pansy went out on a limb then and damn him if her accuracy wasn’t frightening. “It’s Granger, isn’t it. She was the Gryffindor you were with and don’t you lie to me. What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” he repeated, wishing to Merlin she’d go away.

 

“Bullshit, Draco. You stared at her all through breakfast. Do you _like_ her?” Casting a nervous glance around them, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is it… You-Know-Who? Has he done something with her?”

 

Draco shook his head and leaned forward until his fists found his eyes. He rubbed at them hard and saw dancing stars behind his eyelids. His anger was slowly fading and, without it, he felt wretchedly tired and resigned. Without lifting his head, he angled himself enough so that he could see Pansy. She was obviously concerned, staring at him with narrowed eyes, and he was just bitter enough to ask, “Where’s Zabini?”

 

Pansy stiffened. “Inside. He’s horrible, you know. He’s even worse than you and that’s saying something. You might be an outstanding bastard, Draco, but at least you’re honest. He’s the worst charmer I’ve ever met.” Then, “Do you want to know something though? You-Know-Who has set his sights on him. In your place, I suppose, since you… since you…”

 

“Since I didn’t kill Dumbledore,” he snapped.

 

“Yes, that. Mother thinks he’ll do well and rise fast and you know how she’s always right about that sort of thing.”

 

Bloody hell, usurped by Zabini again. If that wanker randomly decided to become Slytherin’s newest Seeker, Draco was going to take him out. No. He was going to hex off his dick, ram it up his ass until he felt as buggered as Draco did, and then… _then_ he was going to take him out. Just see if he didn’t.

 

Tilting his head until his view of Pansy was almost nauseatingly lopsided, he took a deep breath. “What about you, Parkinson? Shouldn’t you be all over that? What exactly do _you_ think of everything? If Voldemort was to turn to you, that is.”

 

Pansy hit him hard upside the head and hissed, “Don’t say his name. Can you keep a secret?”

 

He smacked his head into his palms again at that. “Oh _why_ not? If you only knew how many horrid little secrets I’m keeping at this exact moment, I bet your pretty little head would explode.”

 

Pansy looked intrigued by that but she let it drop. Leaned forward so that she could peer into his angled face. “You want to know what I believe, Draco? I’ll tell you but this stays here. If you ruin this for me, I’ll hex you all the way into next year and I won’t ever speak to you not as long as we live. Who’ll talk to you then?”

 

_Granger_ he thought quite out of nowhere.

 

“Stop browbeating me, you wretched woman. I’ll keep your bloody secret.”

 

“Good.” She dimpled at him. “Truth is, I couldn’t give less of a shit. I don’t care one way or the other about the Mudbloods and the Purebloods. Someone is going to win this war and whoever does will be just fine by me. I haven’t angered anybody significantly. I won’t be in Azkaban. I’m sick and bloody tired of everybody wanting me to take a side.”

 

Interested despite himself, Draco craned his neck enough to look at her face. She wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was staring at her feet and picking at her robes, face completely hidden by a shield of perfectly straight dark hair. He nudged her with his knee so that she’d continue and went back to staring at his hands.

 

“Do you know what it’s like for me at home? Mother is driving me completely mad. In fifth year, she was convinced that I should marry you, did you know? Oh don’t look so disgusted. Like I’d want to marry anyone as pale as you anyway. ‘He’ll take you _far_ , Pansy. Don’t you want to be a Malfoy, Pansy? If it’s the wedding night you’re concerned about, you just could lay there and think of his money, Pansy.’ She had all these schemes as to how as I was going to get you and you know what? She dropped that idea like a hot potato this summer. Now it’s all Zabini this and Zabini that and I will not be sold off like a heifer.”

 

He glanced at her, curiosity overcoming him. “What are you going to do then? If she wants you to get married right out of Hogwarts, surely you’ll do it. It’s your duty to align yourself with your family and-”

 

“Like hell I’m going to do it! I don’t know who would have made a worse husband, you or Zabini, and it really doesn’t matter. Mother and your family are going to lose this ridiculous war and then what? I wouldn’t be surprised if both of you slippery sods end up in Azkaban, no matter which way I choose to marry, and I have no interest in conjugal visits, thank you ever so.”

 

“So what are you going to do?” he repeated, jabbing at her leg with his index finger in time with his words. He felt oddly breathless. He’d had no idea how strongly she felt about things. He’d just assumed… he’d just assumed they’d all be marching into battle together once this was all over. Slytherin unity or some such rubbish.

 

She looked away from him, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. “This is the secret part. If you tell, it’ll mess it all up and I’ll be Zabini’s. And I’ll kill myself first, Draco.”

 

“I’m not going to tell. I already said that. Quit making me repeat myself.”

 

She spoke on a rush. “I… I’ve been seeing Seamus Finnigan in secret all this year-”

 

That caught his attention. “What?! That Irish Gryffindor? Are you completely insane? Pansy, you couldn’t find someone more common! His father didn’t even _know_ he’d married a witch, for crying out loud! And… and he’s afraid of banshees of all things!”

 

Pansy giggled, smashing her hands into her face. “Yes I know he is. He says though that I remind him so much of one at times that it’s quite helping him to get over it! At any rate, his mother didn’t want him coming back here after… after last year. I ran into him over the summer at Diagon Alley and we got to talking.” She shrugged. “I guess you could say one thing led to another. Anyway, once this school year is over I’m not going home. I’m going to get off the train with Seamus. We’re… we’re going to get married right off so that Mother can’t stop anything.”

 

“Pansy, listen to yourself!” Draco exclaimed, sitting up to gawk at his friend, “You just gave me quite an impassioned speech involving something to do with you being a cow and now you’re going to marry Finnigan? What in the bloody hell is the difference?!”

 

The smile she gave him was quite patronizing. “The difference, you slow git, is that I love him and I’m _choosing_ to. Can’t you see that, Draco? Can’t you see any of this?”

 

He held her gaze for a moment before looking away to run his eyes aimlessly over the empty Quidditch pitch. “No, I can’t. Your mother wants what is best for your family. My father wants what’s best for ours. There is no _point_ in defying it, can’t you see? You horrid naïve thing, you’ll never get away with it. Your mother will find you and Finnigan will be killed. Hell, with the week I’ve had, it’ll probably fall to _me_ to kill him. And I will. If Father asks me to, I will.”

 

Pansy sighed and stared at him sadly. Eventually, she slumped in his direction and leaned up against his side. They sat like that in companionable silence for awhile, each to their own thoughts. At long last, Pansy stood up.

 

“Just food for thought, Draco. That’s all it was.” And she began to make her way down the stairs, not affording him one backwards glance.

 

**  


By the time Draco made it to Advanced Arithmancy, Professor Vector was well into her lecture. She gave Draco a disapproving frown as he entered, which Draco answered by shrugging, and proceeded to dock house points. Draco huffed at that in irritation; took a quick glance at the two other Slytherins who shared the class and wasn’t at all surprised to see them scowling at him in disdain… not that that was anything new. He shrugged at them too and privately thought he might as well be given his own house. Draconian… or something.

 

Hermione Granger glanced up at him as he made his way to his normal seat and he was somewhat surprised to see she’d saved one by her by placing her bag up on the chair. Looking a little self-conscious about the whole thing, she lifted it to the floor and wouldn’t meet his curious gaze. He almost shrugged again but that was getting old so he sent the Slytherins his best moving-on-up smirk and sat beside her just to brass them off. Sent the same one to the rest of the class, composed of three Ravenclaws and two Hufflepuffs. Hermione had the dubious privilege of being the only Gryffindor. Sighing, he pulled his textbook and some parchment from his own bag and leaned over to glance at Granger’s notes to see what he’d missed.

 

Some circles apparently and a few elaborate star shaped doodles. A stick figure that looked suspiciously like Seamus Finnigan on the wrong end of a curse (or so he guessed by the poorly drawn four leaf clovers dancing joyously around his head). He raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged but not before tapping the page of the textbook they were on so that he might see. He opened his own to it and whispered, “Nothing worth writing down? How unusual.”

 

Granger obviously pretended not to hear him but after a moment she picked up her quill and scrawled, “I honestly haven’t been paying much attention.”

 

Her handwriting was just about as boring as she was, he noted. It wasn’t flowery like Pansy’s or messy like Crabbe’s. It was painfully straight and evenly spaced, lacking even an ounce of character.

 

“Hermione Granger?!” he wrote, “Is that you?!”

 

“Ha ha ha,” was her reply. He couldn’t see her parchment without angling so she shoved it slightly closer. “I shouldn’t have come back yet. I can’t concentrate.”

 

“Merlin, but you have boring handwriting,” Draco scrawled, “What was the matter in the Great Hall this morning? You looked ready to cry.”

 

She smirked a bit again and kicked his foot under the table before raising her quill. “I have bad handwriting? You write like a girl. Look at all those flourishes! And I was ready to cry. You’ll never guess what Ginny thought. Seamus saw us walking down together and he told her about it. She thought I was keeping secrets from her and now she won’t believe that we’re not dating. Who wouldn’t cry?”

 

Someone had obviously chosen to keep the mood light since he was sure dating him was the least of her problems. However, he had had enough angst that morning to be fine with that. And so.

 

“Oh thanks a lot, Granger. Nice to know the thought of dating me reduces you to tears. Do you know what? I think I really hate that Irish git.” He underlined ‘really’ three times for good measure. “And I do not flourish. Excellent penmanship is the mark of impeccable breeding.”

 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” was what she wrote next.

 

“Bloody excellent segue, Granger. It just oozed subtlety. And I don’t know. Probably not.” A pause and then he scratched out, “Why? Are you?”

 

She shrugged and answered with, “I’m not sure. I’d like to see my mother but I’m afraid… I’m afraid… Well, you know. Especially if you’re right and you think he isn’t done with me.” She exhaled hard and concentrated on staring at Vector, like she was paying attention. “Never thought I’d actually write down ‘especially if you’re right.’ I feel somewhat ill.”

 

“Hang our parents then,” Draco scribbled, really getting into this note passing thing, “We’ll have our own bloody Christmas party. I bet I could get us some Firewhiskey. Would you like that?”

 

“I think not, thank you. Butterbeer though. I’ll even pay.”

 

“Two whole sickles? Oh, Granger, I had no idea our relationship was progressing this quickly. What next? Valentine’s Day at Madam Puddifoot’s?”

 

Hermione snorted and had to smack her hand hard against her mouth to keep Vector from noticing. As it was, the professor had been eyeing them rather keenly. Draco tried to look bored. Once their teacher looked away, Hermione pressed her quill hard into the paper and wrote, “ **D-I-S-G-U-S-T-I-N-G**.”

 

“Thanks ever so,” he wrote back.

 

He was disconcerted to find Granger suddenly eyeing him oddly, as though she had suddenly morphed back into her old self and he was some sort of strange Arithmancy code she couldn’t quite crack. It made him feel shifty. When she put her quill to the paper again, he almost didn’t want to see what she wrote.

 

It said, “Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”

 

He scoffed and scribbled, “Obviously I’m just distracting you from Arithmancy so that you’ll fail. Do shut up now, Granger. My excellent plan has backfired and you are distracting me.”

 

This time it was she who scoffed but Draco was true to his word. Pushing aside his used piece of parchment, he withdrew a new sheet and began to take notes, disgruntled slightly to realize he’d missed enough of Vector’s lecture to not really have any sort of idea as to what was going on. Hermione stared at him for awhile; then she went back to twirling her quill on the paper, elaborate circles covering the notes she’d written for him.

 

**

 

After the class was over, Hermione was out of her seat so fast that Draco had hardly had time to put his quill away. Staring after her retreating back, he thought _what in blazes_ and shoved his things into his bag quickly so as to follow her. All of his rush was for nothing however. As soon as he was out of the classroom, hands grabbed onto his robes and yanked him back behind a statue of some ancient wizard he didn’t recognize. Panic gripped him hard and he was just so _surprised_ that he couldn’t quite manage to get his wand out from his pocket before he was slammed against the wall. He could hear somebody breathing and he was absolutely going to maim whoever dared to pull at him in such a manner (once he got his wand out, of course). Twisting, he tried to pry the hands off of him.

 

“Draco! Draco, cut it out!”

 

Ahh, Granger herself. Glancing down, he scowled at the top of her curly head.

 

“What the hell, Granger! You can’t just run around grabbing at people like that. I thought you were-”

 

“I know what you thought,” she cut him off. Letting go of his robes, she tried to squish backwards into the wall to give him more room- or to give herself more room, he wasn’t sure. “I’m not going to Potions. Just thought I’d tell you so that you didn’t think I got murdered between here and the dungeons.”

 

“Why on earth should I care?” he asked, trying to tame the newfound wrinkles his brief struggle had created on his otherwise pristine robes, “And why the hell not? You didn’t do a bloody thing in Arithmancy just now and you think you’re going to skip Potions on top of that? You’re making it much too easy for me to steal top spot. You’re almost taking all the fun out of it, really.”

 

Hermione looked away from him and adjusted the weight of her bag. “I’m not going to Potions because I’m not going into the dungeons. Coming here was bad enough. It’s _dark_ down there and anybody could grab me. Look how easily I got you! Not to mention the way everybody is _looking_ at me. I can’t bear it, Draco. They’re all looking at me like they know.”

 

“Granger, I hate to burst your bubble… Oh alright, I _love_ bursting your bubble but not a single soul was looking at you. And even if they were it’s probably because you made me sit with you in class and because you and Ginny almost had it out in the Great Hall. That’s not even including the fact that you’ve been one noticeably absent Head Girl as of late. What are you going to tell McGonagall when she asks?”

 

“I think the flu is coming back.” She tipped up her chin, obviously daring him to defy her. “I had a headache. I don’t know! I’m going to go to the library, I think. Maybe I can catch up there.”

 

Sighing, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out his Arithmancy notes. He shoved them at her without looking up, embarrassed.

 

“Here’s what I managed to get. I missed the first bit because of you but, well, it’s more than you have, isn’t it?”

 

She nodded and mumbled a quick thanks before placing them neatly within her bag. She was still blocking his exit and he waited rather impatiently for her to leave.

 

“Well?” he prodded eventually, “Some of us _do_ have to walk to Potions.”

 

Hermione looked completely abashed. Draco thought she was rather pretty when she blushed before realizing what he was thinking. She fiddled with the strap of her bag awhile before answering.

 

“I… uhhh… That is to say, I was just wondering if you wanted to come. To the library. With me.”

 

Draco thought of academic ruin. Draco thought of his father. Draco thought of house points. And then, right when Draco was thinking about how much trouble he’d get into for missing class, it occurred to him that he really couldn’t give less of a fuck. He hated Potions without Snape anyway.

 

Shrugging, he shouldered his bag again and said, “Why not?”

 

Hermione looked surprised to say the least. She stared at him rather strangely before shrugging herself and saying, “Okay.”

 

He followed her out from behind the statue and kept a respectable distance between the two of them as he trailed her to the library. People _were_ looking, he noticed. Staring more like. “Look!” he heard one whisper, a first year by the looks of it, “Isn’t that Draco Malfoy with Harry Potter’s best friend? Isn’t he the one who tried to kill Dumbledore?” He shot that one a glare that should have put the fear of God into him. Wished Hermione would take points away from him for gossiping. She however just regarded him sagely and kept going.

 

When they reached the library, she led him to a table in the back corner, carefully hidden from the rest of the room by a stack of books. She took the chair that faced the wall and left him to stare out at the aforementioned pile of books. She didn’t seem to feel much like talking. Promptly after seating herself, she took out his notes and a piece of blank parchment of her own and began to scribble.

 

Without looking up, she asked, “May I see your notes from the last couple of days please?”

 

It was on the tip of Draco’s tongue to say no but at the last moment he decided to give them to her. It was rather satisfying actually, having Granger come to him for help with her schoolwork; to see one of the Golden Gryffindors copying _his_ notes. Did a bloke’s ego good, really. He only wished Potter and Weasley were around to see it.

 

“Is the She Weasel really mad at you?” he asked after awhile.

 

Granger shrugged and didn’t look up from her paper. “Yeah, I’d say she is. Apparently associating with you is quite the crime.”

 

“You don’t _have_ to associate with me. In fact, I find your presence rather tiresome. You’re there every single time I turn around, Granger.” She ignored that so he continued with, “You could always tell her the truth.”

 

“No.”

 

And that apparently was that.

 

Merlin though but this was boring. Slumping in his chair, he began trying to balance his wand on the tip of his index finger. Girl couldn’t even skip class right. He remembered once in third year when he and Goyle had skipped Charms in order to try and transfigure some of Pansy’s old dolls into real live women. _Busty_ women. Goyle hadn’t even come close. As for him, he had managed to swell the size of the doll’s bust quite considerably but that was about it. Draco smiled fondly thinking about it.

 

In truth, he missed Crabbe and Goyle more than he cared to admit. They were nothing but big hulking oafs but they had been _his_ big hulking oafs. He hadn’t talked to them since his first week back when they had thrashed the living shit out of him in the boys’ bathroom on the sixth floor for failing Voldemort. He remembered lying on the floor thinking about his duel with Harry as they bashed relentlessly on his ribs. Bloody traitors.

 

Sighing, he dropped his wand and began to study Granger. She was looking awful today, he noted, eyeing her hair disdainfully. Despite the fact that he didn’t think she’d had a bad sleep, her eyes were shadowed and her lips were puckered into a semi-permanent frown. She’d smiled at him once or twice in Arithmancy but they hadn’t been real grins. Thought to himself that that was maybe too bad. That maybe he was doing a bad job at it. Harry or Ron could have coaxed a real one out of her by now, he was nearly positive.

 

And what in the hell was he thinking?

 

“Why don’t you want to go to class?” Draco asked abruptly, kicking her leg to get her attention when she wouldn’t look up, “Tell me honestly.”

 

She spared him a quick glance and put down her quill. “What’s the point, Draco? The only thing we’ve ever agreed on is that this isn’t over. If he comes for me, he’ll kill me. He’s a far better wizard than I am. Much more advanced. It doesn’t matter whether or not I pass my NEWTs if I’m going to be too dead to enjoy it.”

 

“More advanced than you?!” Draco scoffed, “Please, Granger. He stupefied you. That’s not advanced. And then he r… then he… did that and that’s not advanced either. He’s nothing but a brute, Hermione, and you-” here, he pulled a face “-are one of the most skilled witches Hogwarts has ever seen. Has it ever occurred to you that you might kill him?”

 

“What makes you think I could do that?” she asked, folding her hands neatly on top of her textbook in order to regard him better. He shifted under her steady gaze, restless.

 

“You couldn’t. Not like this. You need to get angry, Hermione. _Really_ angry.”

 

“Good thing I have you around then, isn’t it?”

 

The corner of her mouth quirked up just a little and, for whatever reason, Draco latched onto that. Funny this, trying to make her angry while making her smile; trying to betray her while giving advice on how to go about killing the bastard. Funny how the only time his head didn’t feel like it was going to fucking _explode_ with an overload of information he didn’t want and couldn’t process was when he was in her presence. Analyzing was for later. Always later.

 

A brief disturbance a few tables over caught both of their attention simultaneously. He craned his neck to see two Ravenclaws, obviously a couple, drop their books on the table side by side so that they might sit together. Draco watched as his hand caressed the back of her neck before trailing down her side to rest possessively on her inner thigh and he knew Hermione was watching too. Suddenly self-conscious that they might be seen, Draco ducked his head back around and tried not to look at anything.

 

“She looks like she likes it,” Hermione pointed out after a moment, clearly disgusted and uncomprehending, “Him touching her leg like that.”

 

Draco risked another glance in their direction and surmised that yes, yes it seemed that she did.

 

“It’s because she likes him.”

 

“I didn’t like it.”

 

“It’s because you didn’t. That’s completely different.”

 

“Do you know that for certain?” Her eyes were narrowed in that look he’d always hated, like a dog after a particularly tasty bone.

 

“Do I know what for certain? That I’d like being groped by some bloke from Ravenclaw?”

 

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” she hissed.

 

Yes, as a matter of fact he was. He smirked at her and she, ungrateful bint that she was, kicked his shin with the toe of her shoe. He should never have tried to teach her self defense, he decided. Granger was notably violent to begin with. And she wouldn’t look away.

 

“Listen, it’s commonsense that it’s different if you like the person and you’re willing. Otherwise nobody would do it and obviously people _are_.”

 

The girl was too astute by half. “And by commonsense you mean that you’ve heard about it and by people you mean people who aren’t you.”

 

“I meant nothing of the sort,” he said rather prissily, “I meant exactly what I said. Who are you to question me? Do you even know who I-”

 

“Touchy. One might assume that I’m right. I always thought you and Pansy-”

 

“ _Pansy_?! Merlin, no!” A pause. “You thought about it? I mean, you thought about _me_ doing it?”

 

“Have you done it? I’m not telling you until you answer me.” And she looked smug.

 

“No. Fine. There. Are you happy now? I was just a little bit too busy last year. Perhaps you recall? Bloody hell!”

 

One shoulder raised in a nonchalant shrug. “Yes, thank you. And I didn’t think about you so much as… alright, fine. I wondered.”

 

And he blushed. He, the notoriously cold Draco Malfoy, turned so red that his cheeks felt on fire. It took a great deal of willpower not to clap his hands overtop of them. He settled for glaring at her quill.

 

“I would have last year,” he added defensively, “I _could_ have last year.”

 

Granger didn’t say anything, apparently oblivious to his embarrassment. After a moment, he felt brave enough to look at her and found her still staring rather intently at the Ravenclaws. Her brows were closely knit and she couldn’t quite bring herself to look anything but repulsed. It was a shame, he thought, that she should feel that way but then how else was she supposed to feel? He wished for about the millionth time that none of this had ever happened.

 

“He kept my knickers,” she told him abruptly, voice flat and gaze suddenly unfocused, “He folded them up and put them in his pocket. Told me they’d make him a pretty souvenir, that he’d take them out from time to time and think about me.”

 

Draco leaned forward until his head rested against the table and resisted the urge to cover his ears. He didn’t want to hear it, he did not.

 

“His hands were everywhere, Draco. He told me he’d ruin me for anybody else. He told me I’d never forget it as long as I lived, that I was nothing but a… a slut created solely for the purpose of being used. A hole to be filled. He said-”

 

“Hermione,” Draco cut her off, reaching across the table to grab hold of her wrist. His fingers skirted up her sleeve to rest where her wound had been and she regarded him quietly with solemn eyes. “He told you lies.”

 

“Did he, Draco? I mean, ever since I got here there have been people telling me I’m not worthy. Don’t even try to pretend that you weren’t one of them. If I recall correctly- and I do- you were the one who _introduced_ me to the word ‘Mudblood.’”

 

Draco flinched at that and clenched her wrist in his hands. He couldn’t stand it, seeing her this way. Everything about her screamed defeat, from her slumped posture to her empty gaze. Her wrist was slack in his grip. He thought he liked her better when she was her old priggish self, running all over Hogwarts blathering on about S.P.E.W. or whatever other ridiculous cause she’d had her mind set on. At least then breaking her had been a challenge. There was no fun in kicking her when she was already down. He didn’t like her like this. Not at all.

 

“Shit, Hermione,” he murmured, laughing in a strained sort of way, “I was young then.”

 

“Can you honestly tell me you don’t believe it?”

 

He shrugged, relaxing his grip enough so that he could dance his fingers across the area that still looked a little pink. “I don’t know what I think about anything anymore. Can you honestly believe me when I say that?”

 

She nodded and pulled her wrist away, clenching her hands together in order to rest her chin on them.

 

“I’ve been thinking. What if I went back? To the Forbidden Forest, I mean. I’m so scared of everything. Maybe if I go there and _see_ that he’s gone… maybe I’ll feel better.”

 

Draco whipped his head up to look at her so fast he strained his neck. Blinking, he shook his head and began to splutter at her. He was nearly _sure_ Voldemort’s present would be there, now that she’d mentioned the place. Where else could it be left without being immediately detected? Panic caused his palms to dampen and he rubbed them distractedly against his trousers. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It wasn’t like Voldemort was going to dump her cat, all slaughtered and bloody, down on her breakfast plate with the morning post. Oh Merlin. What if it was her cat? What if the cat was nailed to the tree and-

 

“Granger, where’s your beast? Have you seen your cat?” He wished he sounded more evil and less hysterically revolted.

 

She looked startled by the urgency of his tone. “Crookshanks? I saw him just this morning. I left him sleeping on my bed. Why?”

 

Draco felt so relieved that he wouldn’t have to stumble across mangled cat that he almost went a little cross eyed with it. Then he realized he wasn’t going to stumble across anything because he absolutely wasn’t going. Now that his father wasn’t using the blasted tree for communication anymore he hadn’t had a reason to go into the Forbidden Forest and he thought her plan smacked of stupidity. He had agreed to spy on her, so to speak, and spying on her didn’t involve sneaking off to get killed by whatever while doing it. He wasn’t going to risk one hair on his extremely handsome head to watch out for her. If she wanted to go, fine. Her decision.

 

Rocking back in his chair, he regarded her levelly. “I’m not going with you. I’m absolutely not going so don’t even _try_ to convince me.”

 

Hermione looked surprised and it rankled. What had she expected? He was hardly her best chum and it irritated him beyond belief that she seemed to expect him to act like one. This was the sort of adventure for Potter and Weasley. Not him. He thought he’d done just fine so far, what with all of his nauseating being there for her, but every man had limits and his were beyond reached. He had done what was necessary. He had cleaned her up. He had babied her a little but _this_? This was just going too far.

 

Still looking shocked and possibly a little hurt, she murmured, “Draco, I don’t want to go alone.”

 

He snorted and rolled his eyes. Grabbed up the notes he’d offered her and shoved them haphazardly into his bag. When he stood up, he made a point of staring down his nose at her.

 

“I am not going to get killed for you, Granger,” he all but hissed, “You learned all the exact same spells I did. You can protect yourself just as well as I can. If you need to run off to face possible doom to vanquish your demons, I say power to you! But I don’t need to vanquish them. You have forgotten who I am, you silly little twit. I am Draco Malfoy. I abhor your very existence. I am _not_ going out there. You’ve chosen your battle and I’m choosing mine.”

 

That said, he shouldered his bag and spun around, marching for the exit. Surprise widened eyes stared after him and he absolutely refused to hear her parting shot of, “Are you afraid of the big bad forest, Malfoy? Or are you afraid of _me_?”

 

[Chapter Three: Part Two](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/96955.html)


	4. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across the term “Sub Rosa” while skimming through Simon Cox’s Cracking The Da Vinci Code: The Unauthorized Guide to the Facts Behind Dan Brown’s Bestselling Novel (yes, I did buy a guide. Hush! There were some hardcore Catholic references in the novel, my dears, and I am not Catholic). Anyway, he defines it as “an adjective meaning ‘secretive’, ‘confidential’, ‘private’. It comes from Latin, meaning ‘under the rose’, and is associated with confidentiality and secrecy. This in turn is from the classical story about Cupid giving the god of silence, Harpocrates, a rose in order to bribe him not to betray the confidence of Venus.” Anyway, I thought it was appropriate. :)

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Three: Part Two  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : In which the isolation begins.  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters. Please see the Author's Note at the end of the chapter for more information on things. :)

 

 

Draco Malfoy’s dorm was dark, eerie shadows dancing across his second rate Hogwarts issued furniture. A lamp had been lit on his dresser, highlighting his picked at dinner and a rather large collection of crumpled paper, and it was only because of that that Draco himself was visible.

 

It had been, needless to say, a trying week for him and it showed in his posture. He was slumping in his chair in a rather uncharacteristic fashion, rubbing his head from time to time with the hand that wasn’t holding his quill. He kept taking sneaky glances out his window, trying to discern whether or not the hated Granger had left her bedroom on her fool’s mission, and his mood had continued to blacken since leaving the library.

 

Fortunately for him, he had also come to a decision since leaving the library. Hence the crumpled papers and the quill. Hence his foul mood.

 

“Father” was all he had successfully managed to put on paper so far. He wanted to follow that up with “I want out” but had been hit quite unexpectedly by a severe case of writer’s block.

 

His father wasn’t going to take it well. Voldemort wasn’t going to take it well. His mother wasn’t going to take it well. All of Slytherin wasn’t going to take it well. Possibly the only person who would be happy about the whole thing would be Granger and she didn’t even have an inkling of an idea that he was on a mission of sorts.

 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Draco said out loud. His voice sounded hoarse and odd and he cleared his throat before trying again. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Father. Please make your _Cruciatus_ as quick and painless as possible. If you are going to stick body parts all along the outside of Malfoy Manor as a warning to other fragilely minded young Death Eaters in training kindly do not mar my face more than necessary. Thank you for your time.”

 

Groaning, he banged his head against his desk and clenched his eyes shut. It was unfortunate really that he didn’t want out for more selfless reasons. Maybe then he could make some sort of appeal to McGonagall but she would see right through it all until there was nothing left but a stupid scared boy who was sick and tired of everybody ignoring him- sick and tired of feeling like a puppet on a string, too. Maybe if he wanted out to save Granger or… or to give up all his knowledge on the Dark Lord, maybe then he could go to McGonagall. But that was useless because he was nothing more than a selfish ass.

 

He supposed when push came to shove, he was in the exact same boat as his bushy haired schoolmate. She couldn’t exactly jump ship either. She had chosen and so had he. From the very second she had befriended Harry and Ron back in First Year, she had chosen. As a baby, Draco had blinked up into the cold visage of Lucius Malfoy and he had chosen too. Things would reach their inevitable conclusion (Azkaban if Pansy was right but sometimes Draco wasn’t sure he’d live to see the end of it) and, in the end, nobody would be to blame but themselves.

 

Choices, and he thought he hated the bloody word.

 

So he had made his and he was starting to feel redundant. There was no point in writing to his father. Voldemort would likely have him killed right now if he backed out after last year’s failure and just because he wasn’t sure he’d live to see the end of it did not mean that he was ready to die that second. He might feel lower than dirt- and he did- _tattling_ on Granger when she was so obviously distressed but that was what had been asked of him. That was what Lucius Malfoy wanted and what Draco wanted was…

 

Draco wanted his father to forget the last year. Draco wanted his father to forget his son’s whole unfortunate life right up until now. He wanted to see pride in his gaze and he was willing to do what it took to get that.

 

He felt old, much older than his seventeen years, as he stood up and replaced his quill with his wand. Sighing, he cast a quick warming spell and glanced out the window at the Forbidden Forest. An old fear crept through him but he squashed it fast. He knew all the same spells as Granger, possibly more thanks to his father’s training. There was nothing in that “big bad forest” that could _really_ harm him if he kept his cool.

 

And he was bloody well _not_ afraid of Granger.

 

**

 

After being let into her room, Draco found Granger gazing pensively out her window as she worried her bottom lip almost to the point of cutting it. She had some sort of fabric balled up in her hands and to say she looked tense would have been the biggest understatement he’d ever heard. He had a strange urge to go to her to pat her shoulder in some sort of friendly camaraderie but forced himself to hover resolutely still by her door.

 

“I knew you’d come,” she said without looking away from the window, “Thank you for coming.”

 

Draco scoffed at her and shifted his weight restlessly. “I think you’re off your bird, woman. We’re going to get caught. I can’t even imagine _why_ you’d want to go back.” Or what she’d find when they got there. He suppressed a shudder.

 

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and he saw that her eyes were unnaturally wide and more than a little red. She looked a bit like a spooked owl. “I don’t expect you to understand it. It’s okay that you don’t. Draco? You gave me back my wand. I need back my bravery.”

 

“I didn’t _give_ it back,” he pointed out, frowning, “I _found_ it and had absolutely no idea what to do with a spare wand. There’s a difference, Granger. It’s very subtle of course but if you’re as smart as they say you are I’m sure you can puzzle it out.”

 

She gave him a look that clearly stated what a great big idiot she thought he was and stepped towards him.

 

“We aren’t going to get caught either.”

 

With a hand that was surprisingly steady, she reached out and passed him her ball of fabric. Feeling rather wary, he grabbed it up and ran his hands over the slippery material. Well, he’d be buggered!

 

On a low whistle, he said, “An Invisibility Cloak. Should have known. Can’t say this doesn’t explain a lot. Potter’s?”

 

She nodded and began to place a warming spell on herself with her wand. He watched her do that; watched her grab up her cloak out of some sort of habit and fasten it over her robes. Once her hat was securely on top of her head (strange little Muggle), she nodded again.

 

“I wanted him to take it with them but he said you never know when I’d need it. Little bugger slipped it in my trunk.” A nervous shrug. “So. Do you want to get this over with?”

 

Draco did. Draco really really did. Fluffing out the Cloak, he flipped it up over himself and, despite the macabre trip they were about to embark on, couldn’t contain a boyish giggle at the novelty. Hermione watched him until she couldn’t see him anymore; then she stepped forward herself and, with his help, slipped under it as well. It was surprisingly roomy underneath and Draco might have enjoyed how cool the fabric felt to his touch under different circumstances. They regarded each other for a moment before Hermione gave him a little shrug and said, “After you.”

 

**

 

The walk to the Forbidden Forest was quite possibly one of the most awkward moments of Draco’s life. It wasn’t like the trek back when Hermione had been hysterical and he had been… well, rather hysterical too. His steps were slow and forced; hers quick and defiant. For whatever hair brained reason, she seemed intent on the trip. The solid crunch of her shoes in the snow had been irritating him for the last ten minutes; her quiet mumblings to herself were driving him positively mad.

 

“ _What_ are you saying?” he asked over his shoulder, doing a quick skip step to avoid tripping on some unseen danger, “If you must talk, perhaps you could do it loud enough so I can hear you… not that I think you have anything worth saying of course.”

 

Hermione huffed behind him and gave him a slight shove forward. “Shut up, Malfoy. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to myself.”

 

“Figures.”

 

And so on and so forth it went. After awhile, Draco realized she was murmuring bits and pieces of spells and cataloging everything they’d learned at Hogwarts that year. And there was that odd sense of camaraderie again: it was a habit Draco himself employed whenever he felt upset. He also realized that the closer they got to the Forest the less determined her pace became. Five minutes out of it, she was lagging behind so considerably that he was taking two steps for each of her one. It was a lucky thing the Cloak stretched with them. With a world weary sigh, he stopped walking and turned around.

 

He was rather startled to notice that she was crying soundlessly and probably had been for quite awhile. Tear tracks were highlighted by the meager light of the moon and she kept swiping at her nose with her hand. She was trembling a little and he thought quite by accident that she was perhaps the bravest person he’d ever met. Brave and stupid, he amended with a quick glance at the darkly looming forest. His hand found his wand self-consciously and he felt a bit twitchy watching her sniffle.

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t go in there,” he tried.

 

Hermione shook her head. “I’m fine, Draco. Tears never killed anyone. I need to do this. Haven’t you ever been so scared of something that you just had to face it?”

 

“You aren’t scared of the Forest,” he scoffed, “What you’re scared of is long gone.” He hoped.

 

She shrugged and squared her shoulders. “Same difference. Maybe I need to know he’s gone. I have to buck up, Draco, or I’ll lose if he comes back. I… I wish Harry was here.”

 

Draco glared at that and, turning his back on her, pressed forward. In truth, he rather wished Potty was here too so he wouldn’t have to go gallivanting through some dark forest for some girl he hated in the middle of the night. He was no good at this stuff. Yes, that would be ideal. Potty to help Granger and maybe Zabini to replace him at the tacky tattling. Lovely. A real dream.

 

It took four steps to realize that the snow’s crunching was only coming from his shoes. Frowning, he turned around and glanced back at Granger, who was now gripping her half of the Invisibility Cloak tightly in her hands to keep it from being pulled off. Those squared shoulders were shaking and he had never in all of his life seen eyes quite so wide. Taking pity on her, he marched back and stuck out his hand. She regarded it warily.

 

“I’m not Potter, Granger,” he hissed at her, “but I’m all you’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

 

She took it. Blinking, she pitched forward and caught onto his hand. Hers felt damp from wiping at her nose and her eyes but he forgot to be disgusted. Telling himself he was only doing it so she could find her damned present, he gave it a comforting squeeze and pulled her up until she was right behind him, so close that he could feel the gentle heat of her breath on his neck. They stood still for a minute and then her hand balled up against the back of his cloak. Taking a steadying breath for both of them, Draco began to walk again.

 

“Good on you, Granger,” he said just to say something, “Good on you.”

 

His feet seemed to remember the way to their location even if he consciously did not. Together they tripped through the undergrowth and waded through the snow. He forgot about all the beasts they could encounter. He even forgot about Granger, in a manner of speaking. His whole entire being was focused entirely on preparing himself for what they might find once they arrived; steeling himself for anything that it might provoke in him. It was what Voldemort wanted and, Voldemort aside, it was what his father wanted. Just because he was proud of the girl (and perish the thought) didn’t mean shit, really. They paused a few feet away.

 

“Draco?” she whispered, voice soft and airy with dread.

 

He said, “Hermione” and tightened his grip on her hand.

 

It was she who entered first, pushing ahead of Draco and marching forward with her head held high. Her grip on his hand became vise like but then he was clenching hers just as hard. Taking a cue from Gryffindor’s golden girl, he lifted his chin too and went in right after her.

 

As it was, they saw it simultaneously.

 

A gurgle of panic rose in her throat and, in truth, his as well. For a moment, they gawked at it and then they both charged- he away from it and her, to her credit, towards it. He felt his feet tangle in the damn Cloak; felt hers tangle in his and then he was falling backwards. His head hit against a rock hidden in the snow with a sickening _thud_ and then Hermione was crashing into him. Draco got a face full of palm and an elbow to the gut and it _hurt_ more than anything else that girl had ever done to him. On top of him, she was panting out moist gusts of air onto his cheek and she only moved enough to dig her fingers into his shoulders. As much for his own comfort as hers, he put his arms around her waist and clung.

 

“We don’t have to look,” he babbled into her hair. She was crying again, he knew she was. “We don’t have to see anything, Hermione. We’ll just go back. We’ll run back. Sound good? We’ll run back and tell… yes, we’ll tell McGonagall because we are so _fucking_ in over our heads. That’s what we’ll do, alright? We’ll tell and then it’s off our shoulders.”

 

“No!” And she pushed off of him hard. Rising to her feet, she began to clench and unclench her hands, regarding the tree with dread all the while. Draco rose as well but he did not touch her. He didn’t really want to go any closer and he felt a hair’s breadth away from all but begging her not to touch it. And why? Because he couldn’t _do_ this. Because before had been enough. And he was _sorry_.

 

Crying in earnest now, Granger stumbled forward through the snow and ripped the wizarding photo that had been hung on the tree off so violently she almost tore it in half. Clenching onto it so hard that her knuckles went white, she gazed down at the image and felt like vomiting what little she’d had for supper. Draco, much to his disgust, was still cowering away from her. Granger noticed and shoved the photo in his face.

 

He saw a couple, obviously Muggle, standing in the yard of a decent sized home. The man, lean and slightly graying, was trimming a hedge and the woman, with her painfully recognizable hair, was bent over in the garden. The words “Our little secret” had been magically scrawled along the bottom of the photograph. Draco tasted bile.

 

“Your parents,” he said.

 

Hermione nodded and shoved the picture in her pocket. “You see? I can’t tell.”

 

He snorted and cast his gaze up at the sky. Fear prickled at the back of his neck. “Oh yes you can. This is just the beginning, Granger!”

 

She was shaking her head before he had even finished speaking. “No, I can’t! This was a _threat_ , Draco! I can’t tell and neither can you. I need to go back inside and owl my parents. They have to leave.”

 

Draco had an absurd urge to cover his ears. “Fine. Owl them. But couldn’t you mention there’s a threat to them? Not… not the other thing but _that_?”

 

Hermione looked alarmingly unsure. Swiping at her eyes, she shuddered hard and glanced back at the tree.

 

“I want to tell my mother so bad,” she admitted, “but what if he finds out? Oh, Draco, what happens if _that_ happens?”

 

Guilt sucker punched him hard in the gut and he shut his eyes. He was trembling, much to his everlasting shame.

 

“He’s trying to isolate you, Granger,” he said, “Surely you can see that?”

 

It didn’t matter if she could see it or not. Pushing her hand into her pocket, she looked around them wildly and all but choked on a sob. He watched her fall apart in a way that was too involved and, when she pitched forward, he caught her before she could crash into the crowd. Together they sunk into the snow and he rubbed circles against her back while her breathing pitched erratically.

 

“I’m so scared,” she confessed, “I’m terrified. He’s knows where my parents are. If I tell, he’ll kill them. Maybe even if I don’t. I’ve got to tell them something. They have to leave.”

 

She shoved her hands in her face and began to sob. Draco’s stomach was flipping so fast and so hard that he was feeling rather ill. This was all too much. Everything was happening much too fast. At least this was a strategy that he _got_. Fear tactics, fine. But Granger was much too susceptible. She was much too involved to see past them. And what of him? What did he care? He felt like he’d split into two different people. Desperately he wanted to please his father but strangely he wished it wasn’t _her_. He was trying to defeat her and rooting for her at the same time. His head was going to explode, he was sure of it.

 

“We should go back inside,” Draco said with a calm he did not feel, “You should go owl your mum.”

 

Hermione nodded and he helped her to her feet. Put the robe back over them both and found her hand before they began walking. When they were outside of her room, the words seemed to tumble out of his mouth whether he intentionally wanted to say them or not. And he didn’t want to think about what they meant.

 

“The password to my rooms is Sub Rosa,” he told her, “You can come in later if you want.”

 

Granger, ever the scholar, looked at him forlornly and said, “How appropriate.”

 

**End Part Three**

 

**Author’s Notes:** I came across the term “Sub Rosa” while skimming through Simon Cox’s  Cracking The Da Vinci Code: The Unauthorized Guide to the Facts Behind Dan Brown’s Bestselling Novel (yes, I did buy a guide. Hush! There were some hardcore Catholic references in the novel, my dears, and I am not Catholic). Anyway, he defines it as “an adjective meaning ‘secretive’, ‘confidential’, ‘private’. It comes from Latin, meaning ‘under the rose’, and is associated with confidentiality and secrecy. This in turn is from the classical story about Cupid giving the god of silence, Harpocrates, a rose in order to bribe him not to betray the confidence of Venus.” Anyway, I thought it was appropriate. :)

 

In other news, expect Part Four up later today. And it is much angstier, my darlings.

 

Next Time: Draco learns a startling truth about Narcissa.


	5. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this chapter but I can't tinker anymore! I suppose a wee bit of fluff evens out the angst?! Also, if you haven't read Chapter Three you might want to because this one just kind of jumps right in.

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Four  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : Narcissa gets her say and Hermione brings Draco a present.  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters.  
 **Author's Notes** : Not entirely happy with this chapter but I can't tinker anymore! I suppose a wee bit of fluff evens out the angst?! Also, if you haven't read Chapter Three you might want to because this one just kind of jumps right in.

 

[Previous Parts](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html)

 

  


  
_Someone else’s boy, I have hope for you-_  
That you will keep your love for the world  
Even though it beats you down, every day  
-Azure Ray’s “Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark”

 

 

 

Draco Malfoy’s room was suffocating him. There was no other way of putting it. The walls were too close, the lighting too poor, and the boy was too paranoid to sit still. He bounced from one end to the other, pacing and muttering to himself.

 

 

He had botched it up. Really, he had. From his father’s viewpoint, he supposed he had made a bloody wonderful choice- giving the girl his password, good Lord- but what about from his? He was nearly positive this was a fine line he couldn’t continue to walk. Had he not been listening to himself when he had told Granger that she had to get angry? He was in much the same position as her, on that front. He had to be party to her destruction and he needed to be bloody fucking _furious_ at her. Like he had been last year. Like he had been their whole damned _life_. He couldn’t be worried about her. He absolutely could not. He could not _care_ about a thing that was happening to her. Death Eaters threatening to kill her parents? Fine by him! Death Eaters stupefying her and forcing themselves on her? Fine by him! Rob her of her innocence, teach her what the world was really like. He didn’t give a flying fuck. She was nothing but a Mudblood, a dirty tainted filthy thing. “A hole to be filled,” as her attacker had put it. Everything was going bloody marvelous! Everything was going to end spectacularly! She would crumble before him and he would spit out, “ _Avada Kedavra_ ” with nothing but hate. Her blood would spill and he would laugh at her demise. And-

 

 

Shit. Shaking, Draco pushed his hands through his hair for the millionth time and crossed to his window. Everything was wrong. Everything was horrible. Nothing was going to end the way he wanted it to. He wouldn’t laugh when she died and, in truth, he _did_ give a flying fuck. He thought of Pansy and Finnegan and Hermione’s present and how soft she’d felt sleeping near him and he absolutely wanted to crumble himself. He needed a good cry. He wanted to hole up in the corner and carry on like a great big baby until he was absolutely spent.

 

 

The father? The girl? The father? The girl? The father? The girl?

 

 

Swearing violently, Draco grabbed his wand up off of his table and stalked to his door. He needed out. Fuck curfew. Fuck everything. He had half a mind to find his broom and fly it straight into the wall of Hogwarts. Let that oaf Hagrid scrape Draco Malfoy guts off the wall for the next week. The father and the girl would see then (only the girl couldn’t possibly be expected to take much more).

 

 

The corridor was empty when he stormed out of his rooms. Hermione’s door was closed and he wondered if she was inside. He had a strange urge to tell her everything because he felt _bad_. Really bad. Low and vile and disgusting. If she was killed would her death be on his conscience? Was he not serving her up on a silver platter? What if in the end he had to do it? His father would be so sodding proud. Voldemort would rejoice in the Mudblood’s death. And his mother would look at him in that bewildered way she had after Snape dumped him off at home, like she had lost him somewhere along the way and now had no idea what to do with him.

 

 

Draco was so caught up in his inner turmoil that he had descended two flights of stairs before he got the niggling sense that he was being followed. As casually as possible, he glanced over his shoulder and tightened his grip on his wand. It would be trouble, that he knew. Granger had more important things to do than seek him out, not to mention the fact that he couldn’t really see her leaving her rooms. If it was Pansy she would have called out to him. A Slytherin perhaps because whoever it was was good. It had been his father who had taught him to trust this instinct and even though Draco could not see whoever it was he was absolutely certain someone was there.

 

 

Forcing his steps to remain even, Draco ducked around the next corner and paused just out of sight. Wand at the ready, he was not very surprised to hear footsteps echoing in his direction not a scant few minutes later. Whoever it was was trying very obviously to silence them but clearly had a reason for being in the castle if they had not cast a spell in the first place. Holding his breath, Draco waited.

 

 

He did not have to wait for long. A scant few seconds later, a woman ducked around the corner. She did not see him at first as she was staring down the corridor but Draco saw her face and started with recognition.

 

 

“Rosie?” he asked.

 

 

Rosie jumped, one hand flying to her cheek, and whirled to face him. It had been years since he had seen her but she looked much the same as she had when he was a boy. His father had chosen her especially to be his governess when he had reached his fourth birthday, a fact that should have made her much more harsh than she ever had been. In truth, Rosie had been Narcissa Malfoy’s staunchest ally; Narcissa’s Malfoy’s own governess once upon a time. He had heard through the grapevine that his mother had hired her on last year as a companion but he had not seen her once at the Manor. Narrowing his eyes, he regarded her suspiciously.

 

 

Rosie shifted under his gaze and tugged her hood down tighter over her graying hair. Dark eyes darted this way and that before settling on his face. The look she gave him was quite unsettling. Almost _loving_. Draco strengthened his glare.

 

 

“What are you doing at Hogwarts?” he snapped with the regal attitude of a true Malfoy.

 

 

But Rosie was used to Malfoys and she didn’t even so much as flinch. “Your mother sent me here to check on you.”

 

 

Draco knew a half truth when he heard one and, besides, his mother? “My mother? Please, Rosie. If you’re going to lie to me at least make it believable. My mother couldn’t possibly care whether or not I was doing well.”

 

 

Rosie, for whatever reason, flinched at that. “I need to speak with you, Draco. We cannot do it here.”

 

 

Draco also knew “it’s time to discuss Voldemort” when he heard it. Irritation made him twitchy and he fought to keep it hidden. Rosie was still regarding him in a horribly fond way and it made him distinctly uncomfortable. She had never been harsh to him, that was true, but she had never been anything other than distant either. She had never treated him in a way that would merit her expression of motherly affection. And since when did she think it was the done thing to refer to him as Draco?

 

 

“We may discuss your business in my rooms,” he informed her loftily, “and I will remind you that it is _Mister_ Malfoy.”

 

 

He turned his back on her and stalked away, not particularly caring if she followed. She huffed behind him and that was odd too since Rosie had always been much too practical for things like huffing. How very odd, he thought. In light of that, Draco made a mental note to behave distantly. He was feeling much too frazzled to be of much good to himself and it wouldn’t do to give that impression in front of his mother’s help. Sent by his mother, indeed! The woman was lying to him and, despite the fact that he couldn’t take much more himself, he had every intention of getting to the bottom of things.

 

 

Draco still did not feel ready to shut himself up in his rooms when they arrived there but he did not let that show nor did he hold the door, forcing his once upon a time governess to make a mad and undignified dash for it. Instead, he swaggered to his couch and seated himself in a manner befitting Lucius Malfoy. How irritating that Rosie didn’t seem to be overly nonplussed by any of it. She seated herself with equal regality and watched him coolly for a moment. He fought to suppress an overwhelming desire to tell her to behave like the servant she was and not like the Queen of Sheba that she was not. He’d give her a moment or two before reminding her which one of them was the Malfoy. Had she always refused to be deferential? He thought not. How strangely she was behaving.

 

 

“You have changed,” she said after a moment, “ _Mister_ Malfoy. Is something troubling you?”

 

 

Like hell he’d tell her. “No, not a thing besides your presence. Tell me, Rosie, what are you doing in Hogwarts? I do not have time for your lies. Leave my mother out of it.”

 

 

There was that flinch again. He had the strangest idea that what she said next was revenge for his previous comments and he did not like that either.

 

 

“I know what your father has asked you to do,” she told him smugly, “I know all about their plans for the Mudblood. I know of everything that has been done to her and that’s why I’m here.”

 

 

“You’re here on behalf of my father?” He was surprised; there was no point in denying it. And then he thought of Hermione. Casually, he added, “Have you seen her? Absolute mess, isn’t she? Getting rid of her should be easy now.” And the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at having to tell her that.

 

 

“Really?” asked Rosie, “How disappointing. We all thought she’d be much harder to crack.”

 

 

Draco did not twitch. He did not. “Harder to crack? Honestly, Rosie! The girl was _raped_! How much more could you take?”

 

 

He was surprised too to see the blood drain from her face. In fact, for a moment he thought she was going to be sick. Something akin to horrified guilt flittered across her face and she had to grip the arms of her chair in silence for a good few minutes before she was able to speak of him.

 

 

“He raped her?” Her voice was small. She looked sucker punched, he noted.

 

 

Draco smirked. He had always been good at keeping up the charade, hadn’t he? “What? They didn’t tell you that? Hmm, not as high and mighty as you thought, now are you, Rosie?”

 

 

And then everything about her changed. Never in his whole life had he seen her look so defeated and so utterly forlorn. He had a strange desire to go to her- after all she had been his governess and it had been she and not his mother who had bandaged up his scrapes and given him encouraging pats when Lucius hadn’t been looking. He did not love Rosie but he did care for her, although he supposed that when he was little he might have. Just a bit.

 

 

“Do you support that, Mister Malfoy?” she asked, “That sort of belittling?”

 

 

He wanted to ask her who the hell she thought she was but there was _something_ about her and… some things he absolutely could not fake.

 

 

“No. Not in that manner. That lacks intelligence. That lacks _everything_.” He glanced down at his feet. “But then it’s all a means to the end isn’t it?”

 

 

Rosie smiled at him sadly. “I’m glad to hear you don’t support that. I never thought you would. You were always such a bright boy. Oh, that poor girl. Does she have anyone to talk to?”

 

 

“She’s been talking to me.” And he said it with bite.

 

 

“Ahh,” replied Rosie, “but then you will ultimately betray her.”

 

 

“That is none of your business, woman.” And then, “Father didn’t send you, did he?”

 

 

Rosie shook her head before repeating her leap of faith. “No. I told you. Your mother did.”

 

 

“Mother?” Confusion made him squint as he puzzled through it. He _hated_ feeling like he was missing things, even though he supposed he should be getting used to it by now. Assuming Narcissa had sent Rosie, either Narcissa did not know everything or she had not told it to Rosie. It was unlikely that Rosie had actually been sent to check on him unless Narcissa was keeping tabs on him for Lucius but that had never been either of his parents’ style. So if Rosie was not there to see him who was she there to see? And then it hit him, absolutely and utterly gobsmacked him. Worst of all was that it made a sick sort of sense.

 

 

“You’re here to see McGonagall,” he stated and he absolutely could not hide his shock, “Mother sent you here to see McGonagall.”

 

 

Rosie looked unusually proud but overwhelmingly cautious too. “I don’t think I’ll answer that, Draco. Naturally there is no reason for your mother to seek out McGonagall.” Then she rounded on him. “Could your mother trust you with that information? Could you ever truly keep that from your father?”

 

 

“Why should I care?” His mind was still reeling. “At least Father loves me. It would be my duty to tell him. Mother couldn’t give a shit about me. Why should I protect her?”

 

 

“Language,” snapped Rosie.

 

 

Abruptly, she rose from her seat and came to sit beside him. He jerked away from her touch but she caught a hold of his hand despite his efforts. Forced him to look at her. Her eyes were angry and hurt; furious and more wounded than anything he had ever seen. He had to fight not to shy away from her and began to remind himself repeatedly that she was only help after all. Even hinting at his mother’s betrayal could have been nothing but a ruse used to get a rise out of him. He had to be careful, so very careful, and his mother was telling things to McGonagall? No wonder she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

 

 

“You would betray your mother?” Rosie was saying and she sounded hurt too, “After everything she’s done for you?”

 

 

That was just too much for Draco. Leaping to his feet, he glowered down at his old governess. “Everything she’s ever done for me?! _What_ has she done for me? She used to love me, you know. When I was little. She used to play with me all the time and make up fantastic stories. And then she went away. She just stopped and then _you_ came. She hasn’t cared a bit about me since I was four years old!”

 

 

Anger and pain seemed to dissolve all boundaries. Draco supposed it was because Rosie had seen almost every temper tantrum he had ever thrown that she was quick to stand as well. Granted that still didn’t explain how involved she looked; how close to tears. How fucking devastated.

 

 

“Shall I tell you about Narcissa Malfoy, Draco?” she asked, voice pitching, “Would you like to know the absolute truth about your mother?”

 

 

“Like she’d tell it to you,” he scoffed, “You’re nothing but her help.”

 

 

“Small-minded boy,” Rosie accused sadly, “I’m a lot more than your mother’s help. I’m the only friend she has. I see now how much she needs one when her own son feels so strongly about her.”

 

 

Draco’s heart was racing. Restlessly, he paced away from her to stare sightlessly out the window. He forced himself to take a few calming breaths; heard Rosie seat herself on the couch once more.

 

 

“Fine,” he said at long last, “Tell me something about my mother that I don’t know. I don’t know what the big deal is. She got married right out of Hogwarts. It was the most awe inspiring wedding of the season, the merging of the Black and Malfoy lines and Mother’s life is the envy of the wizarding community. Please, Rosie. Tell me something about my mother because I just don’t see-”

 

 

“Narcissa was in love with someone else,” Rosie blurted.

 

 

_Once this school year is over I’m not going home. I’m going to get off the train with Seamus. We’re… we’re going to get married right off so that Mother can’t stop anything._

 

 

The statement shocked Draco into silence. It wasn’t as though he had assumed his mother had spent her whole entire life in love with Lucius. It wasn’t even as though he thought his mother _did_ love Lucius. He had never thought about it, not really. Having it thrown in his face, however, shut him right up. He regarded Rosie warily.

 

 

For her part, Rosie blinked wearily and patted the seat beside her. Once Draco had moved, she said, “She never wanted to marry your father. There was someone else, someone not Pureblooded, who no one in her family would have dreamed of permitting her to marry. She was going to run off with him once the school year ended- Andromeda was going to help her- but her mother found out and put a stop to the whole thing. Narcissa was wedded and bedded three weeks after her graduation and then it was too late.”

 

 

“Who was he?” And he didn’t want to know.

 

 

Rosie looked evasive. “It doesn’t matter, Draco. Surely you can see it from her point of view? Lucius Malfoy was much older than her and there is nothing about your father that isn’t intimidating.”

 

 

“Did Father know?”

 

 

“I’m sure he did.” Rosie shrugged, her expression far away and nostalgic. He thought he saw remorse. “It didn’t matter to Lucius. Narcissa was the most lovely girl in her year and from such a good family. He wanted her and Lucius always gets what he wants.” A brittle laugh.

 

 

“So Mother’s marriage isn’t what she had in mind,” Draco replied, irritated, “So what? It was her duty.”

 

 

Rosie sighed and folded her hands in her lap. Draco noticed how much older she looked now. How lined and tired. He slumped back into the couch and closed his eyes. Tried to pretend like the whole conversation wasn’t occurring; like he wasn’t getting more information he didn’t want shoved down his throat.

 

 

When Rosie spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “Lucius had her but Narcissa did not plan on staying. Pregnancy ensured that she would, of course. She was pregnant with you a month after her wedding, did you know? Only just eighteen and _trapped_. I’m not sure it does much good for you to know but she tried everything she could to get rid of you, short of actually seeking help in the matter.”

 

 

And that hurt almost more than the realization that his mother didn’t give two shits about him now. He clenched his eyes more tightly closed and dug his fingers into his palm.

 

 

“This isn’t actually making me want to take her side, Rosie.”

 

 

“You were not conceived with love, Draco. Surely you must have guessed it. You were conceived in some perverse power struggle. Surely you cannot blame Narcissa? But you were always so very stubborn. She tried potions, all sorts of horrible potions that should have killed you and perhaps even her. She hurled herself down the main staircase of the Manor. She rode horses like a mad woman and yet you held on. She told me that the first time she held you you looked up at her with so much triumph that she couldn’t help but love you for it. And you were such a marvelous baby. You became her everything. She loved you so much that she stopped thinking about the man she loved. Stopped thinking about the man she didn’t love too. You were her whole world, Draco.”

 

 

“Why would Mother tell you any of this?” Draco questioned without opening his eyes. Now he was the one who felt sucker punched and he did not- would not- believe Rosie because his mother had abandoned him in this hell hole without so much as a by your leave. Love, he scoffed. Like anyone in his whole damned family knew anything about that.

 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Rosie murmured, “but it is the truth. Do you remember the games you used to play in the dungeon?”

 

 

“No,” was his willful answer but that was not the truth. He _did_ recall them with the vivid obsession of a boy who felt abandoned. Images of “dragon hunts” flew through his mind. Dragon hunts because he had been _such_ a chicken shit and he had been so scared of them that Narcissa had transfigured a teapot into a tame one and had made a game out of seeing who could corner it first in the dungeons.

 

 

Rosie sniffed. Before he knew what was what, she had grabbed onto his hands and was squeezing almost desperately. Draco tried to dislodge them, made a sound of protest and everything, but she held fast.

 

 

“Just say you do, Draco,” she pleaded, eyes boring into his, “Please just give her that. She loved you so much. Every single choice she has ever made has been for you. How did you think you got back into Hogwarts?”

 

 

“Mother is giving information to McGonagall so that I can stay here?” He hated how weak his voice sounded. Hated how his mother’s ultimate betrayal was his fault. How she must loathe him.

 

 

Rosie nodded and squeezed his hands again. Moved closer. Draco gave up trying to free himself. “Not just for you. You mustn’t blame yourself for that. Your mother has never been as fiercely aligned to the Dark Lord as your father. She is a highly practical woman. The Dark Lord will not win this fight.”

 

 

“The man Mother loves,” Draco echoed dully, “he is not on Father’s side?”

 

 

She shook her head and he hated to see her eyes fill with tears. “No. He is not.”

 

 

“Why did she leave me?” His throat was burning now and he swallowed manfully.

 

 

“He wanted to send you to Durmstrang. Said she was softening you up. Her mother agreed. She said it wasn’t the done thing to have such an involvement in the life of a son. If she had daughters, it would have been different but the opinion was that her affections were spoiling you. You were being groomed, can’t you see, and she was only getting in the way. And so she made a choice.” Here, Rosie shrugged. “It seemed better at the time to be on the peripheral than to be nowhere near you. Perhaps she was wrong, Draco, but she does love you. She knows what Lucius is asking of you and… and she’d be there if you felt you needed help in anyway.”

 

 

“She’d be there?” he scoffed. Couldn’t help it. “Maybe. Maybe that’s true. I’m not the one who needs help, Rosie.”

 

 

She nodded and dropped his hands; sniffed just a little as she looked away. He noticed her posture had changed back from desperate to regal and it just didn’t _look_ right on her. Narcissa was obviously giving her the run of the house for her to hold herself in that way.

 

 

“When he raped her,” began Rosie without looking at Draco, “he Stupefied her, didn’t he?”

 

 

Draco was surprised enough to sit up straighter. “Yes. How did you know?”

 

 

Still not meeting his gaze, she directed her sad smile at the wall. “Just a suspicion. Do you think she’d let me talk with her? I feel that I… owe it to her.”

 

 

The wave of suspiciousness caught Draco off guard, especially since he didn’t give a flying fuck about Hermione’s safety. He narrowed his eyes at his governess.

 

 

“What are you going to say to her? How can I know you can be trusted?”

 

 

“Your mother trusts me,” was the reply, “and I bet the girl would appreciate having a woman to discuss matters with. Was she a virgin?” All cold and clinical now as she rose. “Hmm, I thought as much when you told me. She’ll never go to McGonagall on her own but I can help her in ways you can’t, Draco. I’m… proud of what you’ve done so far for the girl.”

 

 

And Rosie’s pride in him shouldn’t have mattered but surprisingly it did, if only because if he dug deep enough he could just _pretend_ it was coming from his mother. He wondered abruptly how she felt about everything and it was almost too much to take to know that he was going to end up disappointing one of his parents. He watched Rosie walk to the door with strangely bated breath and tried to quell the wave of panic that was rising within him.

 

 

“Rosie,” he called abruptly, “tell Hermione that stupid dragon story or she won’t let you in her room.”

 

 

“I’ll tell her the story.”

 

 

“Rosie? What does Mother think? About me helping that is.”

 

 

Rosie gripped the doorknob and stared at him with that same baffling affection. “She’s proud of you too, Draco. Hermione wouldn’t have made it this far if it wasn’t for you and she won’t make it out without you.”

 

 

Shouldn’t have felt sucker punched over that either. He watched rather dispassionately as Rosie let herself out and then proceeded to just sit there for the next couple of minutes. Anyone who knew Draco at all would have known that he was sitting too still; was entirely too contained. He managed to maintain it for a good ten minutes as his throat burned and his heart hammered. Managed not to move a muscle well thinking about his mother’s betrayal, his father’s obsession, Hermione’s suddenly ugly fate. He tried hard to will himself out of the picture, to will himself as far away from all of them as he could.  
And then Draco Malfoy simply exploded.

 

 

With a sound that most certainly wasn’t ever at all similar to a sob, he heaved himself backwards on the couch, grabbed a pillow up off of the side, and rammed it into his face. He took big gulping breaths of the fabric while images of a pretty young woman running all through the dungeons with her son on her heels, charmed dragons dancing around the ceilings, raced through his mind. He thought of his whole entire bloody life in the course of a couple milliseconds and then he pushed on the pillow as hard as he could until he couldn’t _breathe_ \- couldn’t breathe anything but the fabric and stars were dancing behind his eyes and this was the best thing that he had ever fucking done.

 

 

Naturally it wasn’t all that long until it began to hurt like all hell. His lungs were absolutely going to explode and his heart felt like it might pound free of his ribcage. Turned out it took willpower to eliminate one’s self in such a manner and Draco Malfoy had never been much for willpower. Spluttering and coughing, he let up on the pillow just enough that a cool gust of air was able to sneak underneath.

 

 

“Can’t even kill myself right,” he gasped, “I’m a fucking mess.”

 

 

And he was too because promptly after stating it salt began to sting at his eyes and his nose was running in _such_ an undignified manner. He was breathing so hard that he knew he was a hair’s width away from hyperventilating and there was no way in hell he was going to be able to hold on without sobbing like a great big baby.

 

 

The door to his room abruptly opened and slammed; Merlin, anyone but _her_. Still gasping for breath, he pushed the pillow off entirely and turned his head to look in her direction without sitting up.

 

 

Hermione seemed shocked, to say the least. She clearly noticed how red his eyes were but he tipped his chin up (or back into the couch as it was) and glared at her defiantly. She looked absolutely ridiculous too, which made him feel every so slightly better. Her pajama pants were bright purple and had been adorned with hideously clashing hot pink hearts. She had coupled this with an ancient white t-shirt and had actually endeavored to pile all of her curls on top of her head with nothing but a simple tie. She was cradling her beast of a cat to her breast and looked very awkward and uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

 

 

“McGonagall knows,” she announced by way of a greeting, “She came to my room shortly after you left. I mean she doesn’t _know_ know but she knows enough. My parents have been owled and are being moved to a safe location. Extra Aurors are going to be patrolling this corridor and I have been relieved of all of the Head duties that require my presence in a singular fashion. It’s such a relief, Draco. Such a relief.”

 

 

When he didn’t respond, she plunged breathlessly onward.

 

 

“Your old governess came too. Strange, no? I think she provided information for McGonagall, don’t you? _She_ knew but she was so… so… she seemed almost guilty. She said she was going to send you a book that could help me. She said-”

 

 

It wasn’t fair in the slightest but suddenly all of the confusion and fury that Draco felt channeled straight at Hermione. Hot anger made him pant and he lost his grip twice trying to sit up. When he finally was upright, he glared at the girl by the door and saw his father, his mother, and his fate all rolled into one poorly dressed package. He was almost spitting with rage.

 

 

“What are you doing here?” he bit out.

 

 

Hermione seemed surprised. “I… You gave me your password,” she said hesitantly.

 

 

Draco laughed, hollowly and with a cruel undertone. “Yes, I did do that but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you here. I don’t want _anything_ to do with your fucking problems. You and your friends have never caused me anything but grief and I don’t want to _know_ if your parents have been owled! I don’t _care_ if they’re safe. You seem to have forgotten something, missy. I am Draco Malfoy. You are nothing but a base little Mudblood. I want your blood, Granger. Spilled. I want you before me bleeding. I want you gasping for breath. I do not _want_ to be your best friend so take your damned cat and get the hell out of my room.”

 

 

Her eyes widened but not in the way he wanted. Stupid girl looked concerned rather than frightened. And his throat was still burning.

 

 

“What’s the matter, Draco?” she asked, putting down her cat, “What’s happened? I… I don’t understand.”

 

 

“Your damn right you don’t understand! I _hate_ you. I have never stopped hating you. I _want_ what they want, Granger! I’ve chosen my side of this bloody battle just as surely as you have and my side is _not_ your side. I know what’s going to happen to me, can’t you see that? I helped you. That’s true. I’ll never do it again, mark my words. I hope to hell old Voldie comes knocking on my door right now because I’ll hand you over in a flash, you stupid girl. I’ll dance on your grave. I’ll owl Potty myself and tell him. I’ll turn you over in a heartbeat.”

 

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. Given her week, he half expected her to cry, to be hysterical; to be completely irrational. He didn’t expect the blast he got. He didn’t expect her brand new rage to be channeled at _him_.

 

 

“Do it, Malfoy,” she dared, voice little more than a hiss and eyes as cold as ice, “Just do it. Floo your father this instant. Hand me over. Here I am, Draco! Do your worst. You want blood? Come get it.”

 

 

He was thrown a little off kilter by that. Took a moment to reply. “Where’s the fun in that?” was what he replied, “Where’s the fun in killing you like this? I can hardly stand to look at you.”

 

 

“Oh ho ho!” laughed Hermione, tilting her head back, “ _You’re_ going to kill me now?! We all know how good you are at _that_. Bet you made your parents really proud of you there, Draco. Bet Daddy rushed straight home from Azkaban to congratulate you. Oh… wait. You couldn’t do it. You run around here all the time blustering on about this and that and you can _never_ do it. I’m so sick of all of your rubbish about _sides_. ‘Your’ side is nothing but genocide, you idiot, and maybe it’s about time you took a good look at yourself and realized you don’t believe in that. Grow some balls, Draco. Be a man.” Wiggled her eyebrows mockingly to drive the point home.

 

 

If Draco had been standing, he rather thought the urge to strike her might have been overwhelming. As it was, sitting was giving him somewhat of a disadvantage. Pushing up off of the couch, he towered before her and longed to see her cower just a little. But she stood there resolutely, the look on her face that of someone who has seen far worse than a brassed off boy shouting filth at her. Sad, wasn’t it? Sad that he didn’t give a flying fuck, not really.

 

 

“You’re one to talk about courage, Granger,” he spit right back. His eyes were _really_ burning now and it was hard to talk past the pain in his throat. “You have done nothing but hole yourself up in your room and wallow in your own pathetic misery. How _brave_. You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me. You’d have died out there.”

 

 

Hermione shrugged. “So what? Did it ever occur to you that I might be _tired_ of all this? Don’t think you did me any favours, Malfoy.”

 

 

Draco shook his head; pushed a hand through his hair. He had to get out of here. Had to get away from her. The only thing worse than crying that he could think of was doing it in front of Granger, especially this new angry Granger who reminded him so _much_ of the old one- so much better than a girl who couldn’t wander the corridors by herself.

 

 

So he muttered a defeated, “Get out of my rooms” and stalked off in the direction of his bedroom. Slammed the door for good measure as he struggled out of his shirt and pants. Clad only in his shorts, he flung himself at his bed and buried himself underneath the covers. Pulled them up around his ears and took great snuffling breaths of the blanket. Too much, it was all too much. He could hear her shuffling around outside of his door and he couldn’t hold it in for one more second so why the fuck wasn’t she leaving? Anger made his throat hurt even more and then it was simply too much.

 

 

To his everlasting horror, his first sob came out much louder than he had ever intended. He clapped a hand to his mouth and held his breath but that only made his ribs ache; it seemed there was nothing to do but give in. Choking on the effort to be manly about it all, Draco hauled his pillow over his face and gave into the urge. Hauled his pillow over his face and cried like he hadn’t for years.

 

 

If his ears hadn’t been buried in feathers and he wasn’t so distracted with this horrifying thing called crying, he would have heard her enter before the covers were jerked away from him. The mattress dipped in her direction and then the pillow was yanked away from his face. Hermione was close, much too close, and her eyes were as wide as saucers. He expected accusation in her face and this was so _fucking_ embarrassing because he couldn’t stop. What he got was the saddest smile he had ever seen and she was crying too, albeit much more quietly.

 

 

“I told you to leave,” he protested. Wished it had come out as even as that.

 

 

She nodded a couple of times and tried to catch his hands in hers. He tried to avoid her because he was absolutely choking on phlegm and was positively beyond clever repartee but she was faster. She managed to secure one of his hands and then she was moving closer until she was a dizzying thing obscuring his vision.

 

 

“You didn’t leave me.” And what kind of answer was that? “You didn’t leave me out there. It’s your turn.”

 

 

Draco thought he might have nodded. He was sure he reached for her, yanking her closer with the hand she was holding and securing her in with his other arm. Hermione stiffened- her breath caught- but then she was relaxing, a soft pliant thing against his chest. The hand that wasn’t holding his found his face and then her palm was pressing against his cheek, reassuring with its pressure. Her hair felt springy and it was in his eyes and he was holding her much too tightly. And he was _apologizing_.

 

 

“I don’t want you dead,” he admitted, choking for breath, “Don’t really want that at all. I don’t know what I want. I’m so fucked up, Hermione. I’m so fucked up.”

 

 

She said “shh” and moved her fingers on his cheek. Pressed herself closer and let him hold on for dear life until his sobs had tapered off into dead exhaustion and both of them at last were still.

 

 

**

 

 

By all rights, the sunlight peaking through the crack in his curtains should have awoken Draco and maybe, to be fair, it did. However it was Draco’s own personal opinion that sunlight had nothing to do with it. He was all for instinct or sixth senses or whatever and he thought it was Hermione.

 

 

She was sitting up beside him, legs bent and drawn to her chest. She apparently had been observing him in silence for quite sometime; actually blushed a bit at having been caught. Reaching to fiddle with her blanket covered toes, she looked away on a hastily mumbled, “Good morning.”

 

 

Draco’s eyes felt scratchy and he had to blink a few times before he felt a little normal. How to proceed, he wondered. Did he go for casual? “Good morning, Mudblood. Couldn’t resist the chance to sleep with Draco Malfoy, I see!” Or did he go for the more serious, “I can’t believe I cried on your shoulder last night. Excuse me while I hurl myself out of the Astronomy Tower”? Dilemmas, dilemmas.

 

 

In the end, he did nothing but sit up as well. Scratched at his chest in a slightly embarrassed manner. He noticed her eyes dart in that direction and it was only then that he noticed his state of undress.

 

 

In the end, what he said to her was, “Should I put my shirt on? I can. Just give me a second to grab it.”

 

 

Hermione shook her head and once again averted her gaze. “No. It’s okay.” A pause. “Good thing it’s Saturday. We’ve slept well past eleven.”

 

 

“Heavens!” replied Draco, flopping back down onto his bed, “Think of the studying time you’ve missed!”

 

 

She giggled and pushed at her unruly mass of curls. On impulsive, Draco reached forward and snagged one. Laughed a bit himself at how it could be uncurled entirely in his hand only to coil back up immediately upon release.

 

 

“You have the oddest hair, Granger.”

 

 

A sideways glance. “I think maybe, Draco, I’ll take that as a compliment. That’s the nicest thing _you’ve_ ever said about it anyway.”

 

 

“Yes well.” And _awkward_.

 

 

Hermione seemed to sense it too. Pushing the covers back, she stood up and continued to push at her hair without looking at him. Crookshanks, he noticed, was sleeping on his discarded pants but was roused quickly enough when his mistress snapped her fingers for his attention.

 

 

“Are you going?” he asked. Not that he cared.

 

 

She shrugged. “Ginny wants me to go into Hogsmeade with her. I think we get to discuss _you_.”

 

 

Draco perked up at that. “Sounds like a lovely afternoon. Whatever are you going to tell her?”

 

 

“Not the truth, that’s for sure. I don’t know. I guess I’ll wing it.”

 

 

“Do you think… do you suppose it’s a good idea to go?”

 

 

“McGonagall suggested it. An Auror will accompany me naturally. She wants me to-”

 

 

“Flaunt how well you’re doing? Bloody brilliant.”

 

 

Hermione frowned and shot him a look. “ _Safely._ ”

 

 

Draco shrugged and pulled the blankets back up. Rolled over so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

 

 

“Sorry about last night.”

 

 

He practically _heard_ her answering shrug.

 

 

“Don’t be,” she replied, “I’ve been meaning to say thank you and that was just as good of a way as any. Don’t sleep all day, Draco. I thought you’re supposed to be attempting to beat my grades.”

 

 

And just like that, she gathered up Crookshanks and was gone.

 

 

 

**

 

 

To be fair, Draco didn’t sleep _all_ day. He merely snoozed for another two and a half hours before cleaning himself up and heading downstairs for a bite to eat. He half arsed committed his next forty five minutes to trying to find Pansy and then spent the next hour after that trying to come up with an absolutely smashing introduction for his Arithmancy homework. Promptly following that, he sent Weasley (wherever he may be) an anonymous owl for shits and giggles and gained points with the First Year Slytherins by telling a rather scathing Potter joke. After all of that however it was only five o’clock and Draco Malfoy was more bored than he had ever been in his whole entire life.

 

 

Naturally his boredom had nothing to do with Hermione; naturally he did not almost shoot out of his chair when someone deigned to knock on his door.

 

 

“Who’s there?” he called out in what he hoped was a menacing manner.

 

 

Unfortunately for him, he heard Hermione say his password just before reaching the door and was therefore almost sandwiched against the wall when it flung open. Call it Seeker reflexes or call it dumb luck but he managed to wiggle away relatively unscathed.

 

 

“You can’t just come in here,” he protested.

 

 

Hermione barged on past him, clutching a bag tightly to herself and grinning like a madwoman. It occurred to Draco abruptly and rather inappropriately that he had never had a smile like that directed at him from her and the whole thing made him feel rather uncomfortable and silly. It was the most _normal_ he’d seen her in weeks however and the change was a refreshing one.

 

 

“What’s gotten you so happy? You and Ginny come up with a thousand ways to murder me in my sleep?”

 

 

“I found the perfect thing!” Hermione enthused, nearly dropping her bag with excitement, “Last night-”

 

 

“Which we shall cease to speak of this moment.”

 

 

“-was for not leaving me. But I found just the perfect thing for you teaching me how to punch. Come on. Grab your broom. Hurry, for heaven’s sake!”

 

 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Granger.”

 

 

And he wished she wouldn’t. Not now, when things were so undecided. Not now when he still had to report back to his father. He was scum, he realized, absolute scum. Unfortunately for them both, he was curious scum and surely that was the only reason he most certainly did not rush towards his cloak. His broom had a fine layer of dust on it and he didn’t hurry at all while brushing it off. He didn’t! Only that Granger’s mood was infectious.

 

 

The walk to the Quidditch pitch seemed to take no time at all. Hermione didn’t seem to feel much like talking, walking a few paces ahead of him in singularly excited glee. He had wanted to fly there promptly after exiting the castle but she had crowed on about that and so he was reduced to trotting after her like a great big sod.

 

 

“What is it?” he called after her, “What have you got in that bloody bag? Should I have my wand at the ready?”

 

 

Hermione shook her head, darting in between the empty stands. She didn’t stop her half run half walk until she was dead centre in the pitch.

 

 

Making an impatient motion indicating that she wished him up on his broom, she said, “Shut your eyes, Draco, and tell me how much you miss Quidditch.”

 

 

Mounting his broom still felt like second nature, he was pleased to note. Pushing off, he closed his eyes and flew just high enough that she had no hope of touching him. The winter winds were chilly but it was easy enough to ignore that. He concentrated hard on how they all seemed to come together in an effort to dislodge him and was as fascinated as always by how nearly impossible that was.

 

 

And then in that moment there was nothing. Everything that had been troubling him fell away until he was a mere speck of existence hovering on a tiny piece of wood, entirely removed from everything. Draco felt the wind and Draco felt the cold and that was simply all. Silence and it was a merciful thing.

 

 

Suddenly it was interrupted by a slight whirring coming from his immediate right. He made the mistake of looking down at Hermione first- alright, so perhaps he was a little rusty- and saw her smiling up at him, hands up stretched and bag empty at her feet. And he would know that buzzing noise anywhere.

 

 

From her vantage point on the ground, Hermione craned her neck high and watched him chase what was little more than a blip on the horizon to her. She held her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the sun, and smiled to herself as he dipped this way and that. Was good enough even to pretend that she couldn’t hear him singing “Weasley Is Our King” triumphantly as he flew. She thought of everything and nothing all at once, of McGonagall’s newfound knowledge of the threat to her safety, of the way Draco _still_ talked in his sleep.

 

And on the ground, she experienced that unusual inner silence too.

 

 

**

 

 

Malfoy Manor was dark but that was nothing new and was hardly interesting enough to bother nothing, if truth be told. However the master bedroom in the west wing was lit by a few candles, scattered here and there. The mistress of the Manor was seated on a stool before her mirror, staring at an older woman hovering near the bed.

 

 

“Do you want to go back so soon, Miss?” Rosie’s voice was nervous.

 

 

Narcissa gave her companion a tired look before dropping her gaze to the tiny bottle in her hands. She ran a fingernail over the stopper and barely resisted the urge to charge to the school just as she was. The only man who had ever mattered to her would not approve of that, however. Her position was too delicate; too unsure. She only hoped Rosie could understand that.

 

 

“He’s my son, Rosie,” she said, voice full of quiet steel, “This is the only way.”

 

 

“But it was so hard on you last time, Miss,” protested the woman, “hearing him say all of those dreadful things about you. Do you want to go back? So soon?”

 

 

 

“He can say whatever he wants, Rosie, and be entirely within his bounds. Besides, I am going to give something to Miss Granger. This visit hardly even concerns Draco.” An evaluating pause. “I was under the impression that you understood the risks, Rosie, but if you want out I suppose I have no choice but to understand.”

 

 

Rosie sighed in resignation and lifted up her own bottle so that it glinted off the candlelight in the room.

 

 

“Nasty stuff, this polyjuice potion. Nasty stuff pretending to be you too for an evening,” she declared, removing the stopper, “Bottoms up, my girl!”

 

 

“Bottoms up,” repeated Narcissa and she too raised the bottle to her lips.

 

**TBC**   



	6. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken so long I’m really really embarrassed. Real life completely got in the way and I apologize. :( On the bright side, this chapter is a real whopper, clocking in at over twenty pages long. lol.

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Five  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : Pansy finds out an alarming truth from Blaise. Draco and Hermione practice a little trick to help her out in the future.  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters.  
 **Author's Notes** : This has taken so long I’m really really embarrassed. Real life completely got in the way and I apologize. :( On the bright side, this chapter is a real whopper, clocking in at over twenty pages long. lol.  
 **Dedication** : To [](http://bunney.livejournal.com/profile)[**bunney**](http://bunney.livejournal.com/) and [](http://allthingsgood.livejournal.com/profile)[**allthingsgood**](http://allthingsgood.livejournal.com/), for sticking with this story right from the start. :D

 

  
_"Someone else’s boy, you’ve had it so hard-  
Will you grow up to be you,  
Or a sum of your parts just hanging in the air?"_

\- Azure Ray's "Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark" 

 

 

The owl was flying low over Hogwarts grounds but it was not attracting any unwanted attention. In truth, there was nothing that attention garnering about it. It was a stock barn owl, a little larger than most but unremarkable all the same. It flew without a sound into the Forbidden Forest and onwards past it until the trees and the towers were mere blips on the horizon.

 

The only remarkable thing about the owl, should anyone have bothered intercepting it, was the message it carried from a son to his father. The owl was transporting news of a girl the bird had never seen but who, from what the son said, was “stable enough, all things considered.” The father would never notice the warble in his son’s hand; wouldn’t ever sense the difficulty his golden boy had had with writing it. His father would see none of it and his father would be proud.

 

**

 

On Draco Malfoy’s sixth birthday, his father had given him his first broom and had shoved him out a third story window before he’d had a chance to figure out how to use it. “You’re a wizard,” Lucius Malfoy had said, “If you can fly, you can fly right off.” Then he’d picked up his son, shoved the broom into his pudgy hands, and had pitched him out the window without batting an eye.

 

Years later, all Draco could remember was how fast the Manor had blurred before him and of being piss his pants afraid of death. Of course he had not died that day. Promptly after his son’s attempted murder, Lucius had Apparated to the yard and had caught the plummeting boy before he even had time to obtain one single scratch. Draco vaguely recalled fearing that, having failed the test, he was not a wizard and, even now, he still could imagine that stomach wrenching feeling of waiting for his father’s wrath.

 

Lucius’s rage had never arrived. He had set Draco on his feet, dusted off his sweater, and had passed him back his broom. “Know your enemy,” he had said, “You did not expect me to shove you out the window. It never occurred to you that I might do that. I am your father and so you underestimated me. Pretend for the sake of this lesson that that was my hidden weapon. I have exposed it to you. What do you do with it?”

 

Draco had wanted to go and find Rosie so as to indulge in a proper cry, that’s what.

 

“Your enemies are everywhere, son,” Lucius had warned, “and they will do whatever it takes to get you. You must be prepared and know everything about them. In one week, I will push you out that window again. You had better know how to fly by then.”

 

Know your enemy, Draco thought now, idly glancing around the Great Hall. Death could happen at anytime and anyone could be the one to shove their wand in your face with a well timed _Avada Kedavra_ one breath away.

 

In all his years at Hogwarts, Draco thought he knew his enemies. Potter had been his enemy and Weasley too but that much was obvious. In fact, even calling Weasley an enemy seemed far fetched. The red headed twit did not have enough power or enough presence to be a severe threat to him; it was Potter who could upend his world simply by existing.

 

Draco was not so blind as to not look within his own House as well. Zabini had surprised him somewhat. He had always known him to a cunning sort of fellow- anyone with his abundant charm would have found it nearly impossible not to be- but he had never thought that Zabini would go so far as to actually attempt usurping him. Crabbe and Goyle had gotten the best of him upon his return, that was true, but they were nothing but thugs available to whoever it was the most beneficial to be attached to.

 

Parkinson was somewhat of a wild card. She had smiled at him before seating herself and he trusted her as much as he had ever trusted anyone but that was not a reason to exclude her from his list. Her relationship with the Irish git put her friendship with him at risk; she would have been a fool to call attention to herself by associating with Hogwarts’ brand new modern day leper. He liked her just fine but her loyalties called her into question.

 

Ironically, it was Granger herself who was sitting pretty damn high up on his list. Once upon a time he had never counted her either, although his reasoning for that did not go much beyond the fact that she was a Mudblood. Smart, yes, but not really worth the worry in the end. Now, however, his world was crashing down around his feet and it was she who stood in the middle of it all, a beacon for emotional disaster so to speak. Strangely, he did trust her. It was he himself he did not trust. Not around her, not with her newfound role of victim. Sometimes late at night he couldn’t figure out what the fuck he was playing at.

 

With his mother apparently on her side (and what of Narcissa? Was she his enemy then as well?), he felt as though he was racing towards the conclusion of everything he’d been anticipating since the time he was old enough to hear the whispers of Voldemort, only now he had no idea how it would end up for him. He had always thought of the whole thing ending in a great Slytherin cavalry charge, so to speak. Naïve, he saw that now, but that was what he had foreseen. Solidarity in itself was a lie and it felt awful in every possible way to know that his whole entire life might just be that too.

 

And, honestly speaking, Draco had no idea who his enemies were at all.

 

**

 

“See here, you have that wrong.”

 

Draco glanced up from his notebook to see Pansy leaning off the couch and in his direction, gesturing rather impatiently at the notes in her hand with her quill. She was regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and out and out glee on her face, bloody traitor that she was, and it prompted Draco to snatch his papers out of her hand.

 

“See here, I do not,” he retaliated, after searching his notes for any possible error.

 

Pansy smirked at him in a know-it-all manner that was eerily reminiscent of Granger. It was odd being around her in truth now that he was closer to Granger. He sensed that she was perhaps a lot more like the Golden Gryffindor deep down than either one of them cared to admit. Sometimes he thought that if she applied herself for longer than a second or two she might surprise half the school with how smart she really was. Merlin knew her mother was a witch in more ways than the magical one and it took real brains to survive living with Athena Parkinson.

 

Pansy was prettier than Granger anyway, he mused. There was a coldness about his Slytherin friend, no point in denying that, but there was also something about her that seemed very _contained_. Something Granger was missing, whatever it was. Sitting on his couch right now Pansy appeared to be the very picture of casualness. She’d removed her shoes and her right stocking was drooping; she’d unbuttoned the collar of her blouse and discarded her robes. She was _messier_ than Granger ever was but never emotionally. Pansy Parkinson was the most collected person he’d ever met.

 

Pansy Parkinson was still gloating.

 

“Yes, Draco, you nitwit!” she laughed, “It’s so very wrong right here. If you add that just then, first off you’ll turn blue. Then your lungs will fill straight to bursting. By all means, add it. I’ll tell your corpse ‘I told you so’.” She smiled at him sweetly.

 

He took a quick and embarrassed glance at his notes and thought _oh bloody hell_.

 

“Well, my corpse will be sure to tell you that it’s a good thing you’re doing alright in Potions because your Charms homework is dismal at best.”

 

It was Pansy’s turn to gasp and scramble for her notes. Arching an eyebrow at him, she said loftily, “Arrogant arse! You’re not even taking Charms. What on earth do you know?”

 

“I know a lot more than you apparently.”

 

She smiled at him in a way that was at once utterly charming and nostalgic. “Oh, Draco, it has always been such a comfort to me that your ego is such a constant. Everything about our world can change a million times over and no matter what you’ll still be standing there tooting your own horn until the end of time. It’s rather nice actually.”

 

He smiled back at her, his happiness at her company dwindling in the face of the fact that she was very much preparing to leave. He watched her pack up her books and, with the prospect of his whole day stretching laboriously in front of him, wracked his brain for something witty to say that would delay her departure. Unfortunately for him he drew a blank and only ended up standing when she was ready to go.

 

“This has been grand,” she said, hoisting her bag, “and it pains me ever so to leave you alone with nothing to amuse yourself. Really, it does. However I have more important things to do-”

 

“Give Seamus a kiss for me.” Proud of himself that he didn’t scowl.

 

“-that don’t involve you. Maybe if I can manage it I’ll come by to see you after classes tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, don’t bother. Your company has grown tiresome. You run off now to your nauseating Gryffindor boyfriend and don’t even give a thought to poor old me, the once great Slytherin prince, abandoned in this classily decorated jail cell. Just go and-”

 

Shaking her head, Pansy pulled open the door and smiled at Draco over her shoulder. Guilt tugged at her for just a moment- after all, he _was_ quite alone and… well, just odd really- but she shook it off. Desperate times called for desperate measures and Pansy did have an appointment she had no choice other than to keep. She thought longingly after Seamus- hell, her appointment was so dreadful that she thought longingly of Draco. However.

 

Tipping up her chin, she pulled his door closed and adjusted the weight of her bag on her shoulder. Turning around, she saw Hermione Granger, the most annoying self-righteous Head Girl appointed in longer than she cared to ponder, hurrying down the hall towards her, book tucked up securely underneath her arm. Pansy never made it a habit to study Granger but for whatever reason she took notice today. Perhaps it was the way the other girl was glancing warily to and fro. Perhaps it was because she had caught Malfoy watching her from time to time and was interested to know why. If she was a better person, it might have been because Granger looked so utterly… tired. Whatever it was, something made Pansy want to cling to Draco’s door and watch until the girl disappeared into her own chambers. Which was absolutely silly, of course.

 

Sighing at her own behavior, Pansy took off down the hall, all icy airs and frosty glances. She caught Granger’s eye halfway down and nodded at her with cold civility.

 

“Granger,” she said by way of a rather stiff greeting.

 

“Parkinson,” was the equally arch reply.

 

She tried not to raise an eyebrow at her most esteemed Head Girl but couldn’t quite help the expression. She _did_ manage not to glance back over her shoulder as she continued down the corridor; then she surprised herself by slowing her step without reason just at the turn that led to the stairs. Ducking around the corner and cursing herself for a fool, she tucked herself up tightly against the cool stones of the wall and stealthily peeped back out at the corridor.

 

Granger was placidly oblivious and obviously out of her league when it came to Slytherin tactics. She tossed a completely clear look over her shoulder to make sure the other girl was gone, hovering on the threshold of her own rooms the whole while, and when it was quite evident that she thought Pansy had gone she continued to walk straight to Draco’s. Catching her breath, Pansy hugged the stones tighter.

 

What followed made even less sense. Rather than waiting for Draco to answer the door in order to dismiss her with an appropriately scathing retort that Pansy _so_ wished she could hear, Granger leaned in close and muttered what was clearly the password for his rooms.

 

Pansy gawked. Pansy stared. Pansy could not bring herself to swallow. Even _she_ did not know Draco’s password. Bloody bugger had always been very secretive and very private despite what had once been a loud and obnoxious presence at Hogwarts. And yet the Gryffindor, Draco’s _enemy_ , clearly had become his confidante.

 

Stomach sinking even as her curiosity flared up, Pansy pressed her cheek against the stones and wished so very hard for something that even she wasn’t sure what she was wishing for.

 

**

 

Draco was still pondering his supposedly incorrect Potions homework (oh fine, he was pondering Snape’s absence; was missing his dry tutorials and, well, just missing him really) when the door to his rooms opened and slammed shut. Without glancing up from the rather large blot of ink the nib of his quill was leaving on the paper, he sighed with dramatic world weariness.

 

“Honestly, Pans,” he mumbled, “I told you to run off. I don’t need you hovering.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He glanced up at that, largely because he knew that voice and he knew it wasn’t his friend. Sure enough, Granger was hovering near his door, cradling a large and incredibly boring looking book to her chest. His own chest tightened at seeing her and he cleared his throat loudly to cover it. Unwillingly, his gaze darted to the small case enclosing the Snitch she’d found for him. It was sitting on his desk, right near his helplessly blotted homework and easily within hand’s reach. He thought of her on the ground below him, face thrown up and a tentative smile gracing her mouth, looking just about as pretty as he had ever seen her. Felt irritated at thinking that, as though the thought in and of itself was damning when it was nothing really. Just a thought. Just an observation. Not even an idea, since he knew those were dangerous.

 

Granger looked uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Perhaps it was the expression on his face. He didn’t care to think about that either.

 

“Something came for me this morning,” she announced.

 

He could only assume she meant the blasted book. Leaning back in his chair, he tried not to think period and found himself feeling quite normal around her when he really applied himself to it. A familiar irritation made him so happy he almost laughed. All the better to pester her with.

 

“You never say hello, do you? Always jump right in with your problems.” He shrugged as though they didn’t concern him before remembering that they did. What if it wasn’t the book at all? He’d be buggered then. “What did you get? Another lovely little present?”

 

Hermione shook her head and seemed to hesitate. He noticed that she chewed at her lip when she thought about something good and hard in a way that was _almost_ endearing. He realized something at breakfast must have been off to give him such strange thoughts. For a moment he was tempted to bash himself over the head with his newly acquired Snitch. Luckily (oh dash it, _unluckily_ ) for him, she stepped forward before he had a chance and held out her massive tome. He took care not to touch her fingers when he took it from her hand.

 

The book he was holding wasn’t all that old in comparison to the books he was used to seeing Granger cart around with her. It had a beige cover and a few earmarked pages. Mind Over Magic glared up at him in an offensively large font. A collection of essays as far as he could ascertain.

 

“Who is this from and why do I care?” he asked.

 

Hermione huffed like the answer was obvious and began to pace back and forth in front of him.

 

“Rosie, I’d think,” was what Hermione said, “She told me she had something that could help me. Back at… back at your house. I’m assuming she dropped it off. The Auror McGonagall has watching me gave it to me this morning before breakfast. I’ve been trying to find you all day to show it to you. If I would have known it was as easy as coming here, it really would have saved me heaps of time. I just assumed you’d be out and about, up to no good or some such.”

 

“Stealing our books now, is she.” Distasteful notion that she probably hadn’t. If everything was true, this book had most likely come from his mother, or at least knowingly been removed from her collection. Feeling a little funny about that, he flipped open the cover and read the table of contents as he walked. He imagined his mother pouring over the pages herself, fair head bent and manicured nails leafing through it, and felt like he’d never known her at all. “I can’t imagine what she’d have this book for. Looks like nothing but a bunch of theories. _Boring_ theories too.”

 

Hermione looked at him like he was a great big idiot. “No, silly, see here. These theories all relate to the idea that magic is not as strong as everyone believes- that the human mind is stronger. _If_ what the book is saying is true, it implies that all it takes to overcome any sort of spell is strict mental discipline. I confess to not having had enough time to read very far into it but think of it as something similar to Occlumency or… I don’t know, the ability to steel yourself against the Imperius Curse. It’s quite a revolutionary idea. If the Imperius Curse was to fail or perhaps not even hold up quite so well, can you even imagine? It would change the face of this war. It would change everything.”

 

“Balderdash.” Dismissing it with an uninterested scowl, he tossed it onto his desk. “This book is nothing but a bunch of ridiculous hooey. It’s all rubbish. Any halfwit could have thought this up. You have to admit as far as theories go it merely _sounds_ sensational. It would never work. ‘Oh, behold! This Cruciatus simply tickles!’”

 

She glared at him and the urge to smile was hard to suppress. There was a moment- he just knew it- where she debated leaving; instead she let out a very loud breath and plopped down onto his couch. He thought again of how composed Pansy looked even when she was disordered and decided there was something to be said for wearing one’s emotions on one’s sleeve. When it wasn’t his sleeve, of course. Or his emotions. Granger looked so brassed off at him that he was indeed rather tickled.

 

“Oh lighten up,” he said, moving to sit beside her, “It probably didn’t come from Rosie anyway. Why on earth would she send you this? ’S a waste of your time reading it.”

 

For some absurd reason, he thought his comment might have hurt her. She stared at him solemnly for quite sometime, eyes large and confused, as though she expected him to have all the answers for her. The pressure made him feel antsy. Rubbing his hands at his knees, he stared right back.

 

“Are you going to make me say it, Draco?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

 

He thought abruptly how used to the sound of his name on her lips he was getting and longed to be called Malfoy, just once more. He thought of the days he would have laughed to see her looking all wide eyed and expectant. “Dirty little Mudblood,” he would have said in sibilant tones, “What right have you to stare at me like that? Filth.” He thought-

 

_“He came up behind me and used the Stupefying Charm on me. That’s… that’s when he did that to my arm and got rid of my wand. I guess he must have used some sort of silencing spell as well because when he reversed the other I couldn’t speak…”_

 

What he ended up saying was, “Oh.”

 

“Oh,” she echoed, looking away from him to stare at the book, left behind but hardly forgotten on his desk, “I know it’s likely nothing but sensationalism. Believe me. I do still have some sense, you arrogant arse. But what if it isn’t? I don’t think it’ll work on the bigger more dangerous spells. Perhaps though… being stupefied is something so little, isn’t it? Well, even if it’s not. If I could just get it to work on that _one_ thing. I’m quite sure I can do it. I’ve always been good at this sort of thing. What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s true.” A pause. “Only if he comes back…”

 

He regarded her as hard as he could, trying to see inside of her head to ponder out exactly what it was she wanted. She was avoiding his gaze now, watching instead his hands that were still busy on his knees, and that made it considerably harder. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked what he did next. All he knew in that instance was a strange sort of softness towards her and that was what he acted on.

 

“What do you want, Granger?”

 

“I want you to help me.” All bravery now, her eyes were fiery with her request. “I can hardly charm myself now can I? And even if I could, I’d need somebody to reverse it assuming… well, surely there’s no need to assume I _won’t_ be able to do it but, you know, just in case.”

 

“Who’s the arrogant arse now?” he asked lightly.

 

And then her request hit him. Apparently he was doing what he was supposed to be doing even better than he’d thought himself capable. It was quite clear that she trusted him, silly chit that that made her. The realization made him feel oddly hollow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that loathsome hair and that stubborn chin and felt… empty. Drained.

 

From that angle, he could see the box on his desk too. It was not the best present he’d ever received, nor was it the most expensive. As far as Snitches went, it wasn’t really all that great of a Snitch. A little on the sluggish sound in all actuality. She had given it to him as a thank you. That was what she had said. But he remembered sitting on his broom, hearing the familiar buzz of its wings and he hadn’t thought of thank-yous and who’s-to-blames. He hadn’t thought of a blasted thing and _that_ was the nicest thing he’d been given all year. Surely it was that that gave him pause.

 

“Why me? You can’t possibly trust me, Hermione.” Fair warning and what all.

 

She sighed and placed her hand on top of his, stilling their movement on his knees. He wasn’t sure that she’d ever touched him willingly before, all past supposed thank-yous aside. He had a curious urge to snatch his hand back; stayed still.

 

“No,” she said and it was almost a laugh, “Yes. I’m not certain. You wouldn’t be my first choice. Rather you’re my only choice. Who else would do it without explanation? No one.”

 

And think of the fodder it gave him! Wearily, he looked at their hands and wished and wished…

 

“Tonight then. After dinner. I’ll meet you here. Can you figure out a way past the Aurors to get into my room?”

 

A sneaky smile. “Have Harry’s cloak, don’t I?”

 

“Alright.” If it was nerves he was feeling then that was too damned bad. “Tonight.”

 

**

 

As far as Pansy could tell, she was by far the best whore at Hogwarts. Granted that there weren’t too many and none in the truest meaning of the word, save for herself. She thought from time to time that that would change; that all of the pretty girls in the school would eventually wake up one morning, gob smacked with the realization that they were something to look at it and that their breasts and their hips and their words could be just as deadly to the enemy as any spell. It was hardly her fault. She had been trained from a young age to recognize power; to go after it with everything she had. It had been her mother’s idea to play at an affection for Draco. Thank Merlin she had been younger then. Thank Merlin she hadn’t been forced to do _this_ with him, one of the only people she’d ever counted as a friend. Not entirely unwillingly. Not in a way that brought bile to her throat.

 

_This_ amounted to an empty Slytherin common room (it sickened her how everyone lined up to kiss Zabini’s arse now that Draco had fallen out of favour. One look from the smarmy devil and see how they fled!). _This_ amounted to Zabini’s hand sneakily stuck up underneath her blouse- underneath her bra, for pity’s sake!- and his lips smacking distastefully against her neck. _This_ amounted to the soft sighs and encouraging little moans coming artfully from her own mouth. _This_ was the worst thing she’d ever had to endure.

 

Draco had given her her first kiss during the fall of their third year. She’d returned to school high on her mother’s ideas, star crossed and dizzy with the thought of snaring a Malfoy. She had gone to the Quidditch pitch after a practice and he’d just done it. No pretenses. No fancy words. It had been a terrible kiss and he had been such a bastard about the whole thing afterwards but she always remembered the actual instant of it fondly.

 

She thought of Malfoy a lot when she was with Zabini. She never thought of Seamus. Couldn’t think of Seamus, who knew about what she was doing but could never quite bring himself to understand. She lived in fear of him trying to thrash Zabini over it but he had held himself together quite well for someone who must have felt utterly cuckolded. She knew what she was doing was a necessity. If her mother was to suspect that she’d cooled towards the Next Great Thing she’d be all over her in an instant and everything with Seamus would come to a crashing halt. Pansy’s escape lay in enduring this so that she could run away with him at the end of the year, undetected and completely out of the blue. If she thought of Seamus, if she thought of all the pressure and all the hurt, she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

 

Zabini’s spare hand fell to her knee and began to edge up underneath her skirt. She forced a coy giggle even as her skin crawled at his touch and wiggled away in what she hoped was a hopelessly flirty manner. She had to use her hands to pull his out from underneath her bra.

 

“Come now, Blaise,” she murmured, leaning in to press a deceptively chaste kiss on his lips, “What sort of girl do you take me for? I’m not doing that, darling. Not yet. You mean too much to me. Won’t it be better if we wait?”

 

Leaned back then and didn’t bother doing up the top few buttons of her blouse. His eyes darted to the gap in the fabric and he licked his lips. She coloured with anger but knew he’d see it as a blush.

 

His mouth replied, “I take you for a respectable girl, naturally” but his tone clearly said _bet she’s spread ’em for Malfoy countless times, stupid slag_. “The sort of girl I’ll be able to give everything to one day, once I’m out of here.”

 

She hated his eyes. Despite the fact that she’d heard many girls blabbing on about their charming slant and rich colour, they were so cold to her that it took immense concentration to stare into them lovingly.

 

“We’re out of here soon,” she simpered, “I’ll give you everything too, Blaise. I’m entirely yours. There’s not even six months left.” Thank Merlin.

 

The thought of never seeing him again after that made her smile quite genuine and softened his pout a little. Sighing a beleaguered sort of sigh, he adjusted himself (observe her talents for she did not even cringe!) and cuddled her to him. She went easily and told herself that at least in this position she wouldn’t have to see the arrogant smirk he’d never quite been able to pull off. Seamus had told her once that the She Weasel had called Zabini a poser. Pansy was quite sure she’d never again agree with a Weasley but the girl had been right on the money with that point.

 

He crooned, “Just let me hold you then, how about? I’m ever so tired.”

 

She felt ever so nauseous. “Something bothering you?”

 

Even without being able to see him, she knew his smile was smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

She didn’t, not particularly. Unfortunately for her, Zabini loved blustering on about himself even more than Malfoy did. The difference only seemed to lay in that Malfoy had never talked about the important things. All of last year and she hadn’t even known _anything_. Granted by then their pretend romance had cooled noticeably and she had been so very bored with the idea of him but still. He had not so much as breathed a single word to her.

 

The thought never would have crossed Zabini’s mind. She knew everything You-Know-Who had ever instructed him to do, all petty things. Stupid small little errands but she knew just as surely as he did that they were all leading to greater things. They were the same little tests Lucius had put his son through for the sake of the Dark Lord and… well. Everyone knew what had happened with Draco.

 

“I’ll tell you anyway. Just so you know that you chose the right one of us between that ferret and me.”

 

Lovely. Perfect. His jealousy almost made her cross eyed with rage and _if only he knew_. But that was thinking of Seamus.

 

“I’m going to do great things for him, Pansy. I’m going to go so far. Farther than Malfoy and his stupid father. They’ll all grovel before me, don’t you know.”

 

“Mmm, of course they will.”

 

He chuckled, his chest vibrating underneath her cheek. “You-Know-Who is going to break Granger,” he confided, voice shaky with an almost scary desire, “He has quite the plan for her. Do you know the funny thing? Right now the Malfoys are feeding him information about the whole thing, like this one task will redeem them in his eyes. I’ve heard all about it, how the two of them are bending over backwards.” This time his chuckle was cruel. “But it will be me in the end, Pansy. I’m going to bring her to them. I’m going to finish it. Can you even imagine being assigned _that_? Potter will crumble without her and I shall laugh when I see that Mudblood bleed.”

 

In his loose embrace, Pansy went absolutely still. It crossed her mind that he would think it shock, admiration perhaps. She thought of Granger going stealthily into Draco’s room; of that long ago afternoon outside by the pitch when she had told him about Seamus and had teased him about staring after Granger in the Great Hall. She thought of how odd he had seemed over the last couple of weeks, withdrawn but not as… unhappy as usual. Recalled Seamus mentioning in passing that Ginny had taken it into her head that Granger fancied Draco.

 

It made a sick sort of sense that Draco was after You-Know-Who’s favour after last year’s colossal failure. What surprised her more than anything was how _sad_ that made her feel. She hadn’t consciously entertained the idea of his reform. It had been _she_ who had taken comfort and found something utterly amazing in the arms of a Gryffindor. Never did it cross her mind that Draco might have actually fancied the pretentious swot, no matter what Ginny was rumoured to have said. She knew him too well for that. And she knew Seamus and his side too well to imagine for one second that they would allow her to continue her friendship with Draco once she left the school, barring some drastic change in his behavior. The end of their rather odd comradeship had been a given and it hadn’t bothered her overly much until now.

 

Abruptly the thought of leaving him made her feel absolutely devastated. In her time, she’d genuinely fancied him, been in awe of him, and loathed him with her whole entire heart. She had very few memories of Hogwarts that weren’t intertwined with Draco Malfoy. He was her best friend. Her eyes flooded and thank Merlin for the fact that her face was buried in Zabini’s chest.

 

And Zabini! Good God. He wanted everything Malfoy had ever had. He would never let Malfoy go through with any sort of plan he might have had for Granger. No, Draco would do all of the work, Zabini would take the credit, and then… Surely You-Know-Who would see it as a failure on Draco’s part. After all, Draco and his father were being set up to have Zabini steal their thunder. It would mean Draco’s death, she knew it.

 

She had to say something. To Draco. To Zabini. Yes, to Zabini.

 

“He trusts you. You’re the best he has.”

 

Merlin, someone rip her lying tongue out. Zabini chuckled again and she absolutely couldn’t stand the sound. Long fingers tipped up her chin and then his mouth was on hers. She forced herself to kiss him back. Forced herself to _think_.

 

Did she think of Granger? Surely she would have. Surely she _was_ somewhere deep down inside. In truth, the girl meant nothing to her but… the plan would mean her death too and Potter would be devastated. Without Potter, where was Seamus? What would happen to his side then? Having fully believed rather pessimistically that her side would lose in the end, she had never contemplated You-Know-Who’s victory. It would mean the death of so many people. Fear clenched her stomach hard and it was nearly impossible to kiss Zabini back properly.

 

She had to tell someone. Her instincts screamed Seamus but he would not do, not really. The plan had to be flushed out so that Potter would return from wherever he was and save the blasted day. The plan had to be flushed out by Draco in such an artful way that he would never take the fall for it. Yes, that was exactly it. She needed to tell Malfoy. She needed Malfoy on her side, whatever her side was. She needed Draco to live.

 

Abruptly she pulled away from Zabini, pausing only to stroke his cheek adoringly.

 

“Enough, remember? I’ve homework to do. Can you bear to part with me?”

 

A shrug and a casual dismissal. Nothing but a reminder that she wasn’t so terribly important to him. Draco Malfoy’s used goods.

 

“Whatever. Send Crabbe and Goyle my way if you see them, won’t you?”

 

“I’ll be in the library.”

 

And she fled.

 

Or she wanted to. Carefully, she modulated her steps all the way out of the common room, all the way out of the dungeons. She walked slowly and carefully to the corridors leading to the Great Hall and, calm as can be, stalked off there. She hoped Draco would be down for supper soon. Perhaps she could signal that she needed him.

 

Halfway there when she passed a statue artfully hidden in an alcove. She would never know that it was the same one Hermione had pulled Draco behind. All she knew was that hands darted out from behind it and latched onto her arms; that she was pulled backwards with such speed that she almost lost her balance. A palm smacked down over her lips.

 

“Easy, love,” someone said, voice lilted and cheerful, “You’re going to give us away if you take to hollering.”

 

Pansy knew that voice. Spinning around, she met green eyes that were not cold and, standing on her tiptoes, pressed her cheek hard into his. Seamus’s arms came up around her and he began to rub soothing circles on her back.

 

“I’ve learned the most dreadful thing just now,” she cried, trying unsuccessfully to find his lips in the shadowy light. All she wanted was to not taste Zabini for one second longer.

 

“You were with Zabini.” Not a question. He stiffened in her arms.

 

She nodded and suddenly felt like crying. He kissed her then, a hard possessive sort of kiss, and grumbled something she could not make out into her hair.

 

“I can’t stay. I’ve got to find Malfoy.”

 

“Oh, doesn’t this keep getting better and better? You promised me dinner, young lady. I don’t like to be put off, especially for that-”

 

“Seamus!”

 

He laughed then. “Sorry, ducks, you know I don’t like him. Can’t you spare me an hour? You can tell me whatever it was you learned.” When she didn’t offer it immediately, he sighed. “Or not. Fair enough. I don’t tell you half the juicy tidbits Ron owls me. But an hour? Surely it can wait an hour?”

 

An hour. She knew the answer was no but his arms felt so good and it had been so long since she’d been able to sneak in any time with him. She was selfish and horrible for it but surely You-Know-Who wasn’t going to set up Draco within the hour.

 

“How are we going to get away?” was what she whispered.

 

**

 

Admittedly, it wasn’t quite how Draco pictured the moment when he would finally get to stare down his wand at Granger. There had always been fear involved in those daydreams. Not that she wasn’t afraid. Oh no, she was practically quaking before him in the most absurdly brave way he had ever seen. She didn’t want to be Stupefied, not really, and yet here she was.

 

Of course he wanted to make her feel better. More at ease.

 

“I could cast any spell, you know. Remember that Imperius Curse we were talking about earlier? Do you fancy that? Nothing to guarantee I’m going to listen to you. I have all the power, Granger. Savor this moment.”

 

“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth, “Savor it and then move on please. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject today and I’d prefer if you cast the damned spell before any of your babble crowds something important out of my brain. If you cast anything different, I’m quite sure I can break out of your silly spell with what I’ve discovered recently and then won’t you be sorry! You will be. I’m rather handy with curses.”

 

She petered off lamely and glanced about herself, trying not to tremble. She hated being Stupefied on the best of days and Draco’s indecision was almost breaking her nerve. Not to mention that she was crazy to be doing this. He looked so much like someone else standing before her with his wand brandished that it was taking incredible control not to turn and run. She did not trust him; she had not lied. Trust and need were different however and she was a Gryffindor. It didn’t matter who he reminded her of.

 

Glaring at him, she snapped, “You _can_ cast one, can’t you?”

 

He snorted and scowled. “Of course I can, you silly twit.” A pause during which he regarded his wand and she examined her toes. “How shall I do it? Shall I count down?”

 

“Yes please. I’m not sure I just want to leap right into it. Easing into it, right? Yes, that sounds much better. You count it off and then do it. Perhaps you can count from ten? Only that that gives me lots of time to ready myself. Shall I tell you what I read? That way you can-”

 

“ _Stupefy_!” Just to end it.

 

He watched the bolt of red light shoot out of his wand and was glad that his aim held true, as he wasn’t certain he was going to get another chance. It hit Granger square in the chest. For a second she stood suspended; then she crumpled at his feet, narrowly missing the edge of the table before his couch.

 

Draco watched her dumbly, trying to decide what would signal that it was working. It occurred to him that he should have asked that before casting the spell but then it bothered him immensely to think about asking Granger for help on anything. Moving to sit on the armrest, he waited.

 

As the seconds ticked by, it began to dawn on him that it must be horrible for her to be laying there like that, unless she was concentrating so hard that she wasn’t really _thinking_ about anything else. If she was thinking… He suppressed a shudder imagining what she might be remembering. Was she feeling it? Strange hands pushing her down. A knife flashing under the moonlit sky. Pain. There would have been pain. Could she feel it, laying there before him? It unsettled him, wondering that.

 

If only he had any stones at all, he’d do her in now. Twirling his wand between his fingers, he contemplated it but his stomach lurched at the idea, just as it had last year. Draco cursed himself loudly and wished his father was here, instead of somewhere else waiting patiently for his owls and doing squat all as far as he could tell. His father would take the decision right out of his hands.

 

Would it hurt her, dying under this spell? Clearly it was not working, her neat little mind over magic trick. She should have pulled it off already. Biting at his lip, he leveled his wand at her.

 

Avada Kedavra. Problems solved.

 

“ _Rennervate_!”

 

Hermione sat up so quick she almost had another unfortunate encounter with his table. Her breathing had been level and slow when she’d been charmed; now it came fast and choppy. Great big heaves. She pushed her hands to her face at the same time as she drew her knees to her chest. Then she simply sat there and gasped.

 

Draco observed this rather passively for a good thirty seconds. Then, of all absurd things, he began to feel a bit concerned that he hadn’t cast the spell right and had caused her further injury. Leaning forward precariously on the armrest, he put his hand on her shoulder.

 

Granger shot back and away from his touch, crawling backwards a few feet. Bewildered she stared up at him, tears that she was too proud to shed clouding in her eyes. Her face was red, two splotches of colour sitting unnaturally high on her cheekbones. She looked truly awful.

 

“Could you have left me under there any longer?” she cried, voice pitched, “Merlin, Malfoy!”

 

He said defensively, “I was giving it time to work.”

 

“Well, it didn’t work, now did it?” She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh, how I _wanted_ that to work!”

 

Strangely, so had he if only so that she wouldn’t be so defenseless the next time. One good shot, that was all he wanted her to have. Her disappointment was curiously hard to witness.

 

Sighing, he reached out a hand in her direction. She took it only because she felt too shaky to stand on her own; let him pull her to the couch. She sunk back into the cushions and he slid off the rest to sit beside her.

 

“It was all rubbish. I told you.” He gentled his voice so as not to be a complete bugger. “The whole idea is simply-”

 

“No, it’s not.” She was out of breath now, panting beside him. “You have to _clear_ your mind and that is hard. Especially since… especially when…”

 

Hermione shuddered so violently he felt it on his own cushion. Afraid to touch her, he shifted carefully closer.

 

“It’s not going to work.”

 

“I just have to practice,” she countered, “Rosie sent it to me for a reason.”

 

“You want to do it again?!” Tried and failed not to sound surprised. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

She shook her head so fast that he almost got a face full of curls. “Not now. If you try it again on me now, I’ll break you wand. I can’t. Merlin, I can’t-”

 

“Breathe, Hermione.”

 

Nodding, she attempted to do just that. He watched her struggle, struck between humoured and horrified. Clearly she had indeed had a busy little mind whilst under his spell; clearly the effect it had on her was awful. She was still panting, quick whooshes of breath through barely parted lips, and her colour hadn’t faded any. Seemed to him that this might have been a good trick for someone to try on her, especially if that someone was-

 

Holy hell. He was an idiot. He was truly the stupidest creature to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. Gaping at her, he tried to find a way to artfully couch his subject. Perhaps she’d already thought of it. If she hadn’t, it didn’t say much for her intelligence either. He had to be careful with this, even as anger at the very idea began to bubble up in his chest.

 

“Granger?” When she didn’t stop her hysterics to look at him, he gave her arm a little shake. “You said Rosie sent this to you?”

 

For a second, she ignored the question. Then she turned to him, so confused and befuddled that he knew she wasn’t thinking it, even now.

 

“Yes, of course. She said she’d help me.”

 

Help Granger, eh. Or spy on Draco. The idea of his mother on Hermione’s side still didn’t sit well with him… didn’t feel right. However- and he was _such_ a fool!- he wouldn’t put a bit of spying here and there past his father. What if Lucius had sent the woman to check up on him? Make sure he was getting all the information he could possibly gather?

 

Suppressing a sinister shudder, he asked, “How did you know it was Rosie? How did you know she actually meant to help you? Look at you, Granger. You’re a mess.”

 

Being presented with such a problem snapped her out of her fit just as well as anything else he could have thought up. She gaped right back at him, realization dawning on her face.

 

“I don’t know. She’d said she’d been with you. She knew a lot of what happened and she was able to guess the rest…”

 

Their next whopping insight came simultaneously but it was she who voiced it. Draco was feeling too sick with… what? Worry? Doubt? Agitation? Whatever it was, he was too busy contemplating it to put it into words. _Such_ an idiot!

 

“How did you know it was Rosie?” she breathed, as though speaking it any louder than a whisper would damn them both. Her face paled abruptly and he knew his did the same. “Merlin, Draco! And we think we’re so smart! I’ve even used Polyjuice from time to time. She could have been anyone.”

 

“It was Rosie,” he snapped, even as doubt continued to blindside him.

 

But she had been off, hadn’t she? Primmer than normal, more uptight. He had assumed it had been his mother’s effect but if he had been thinking clearly instead of being so damned distracted with everything she’d told him surely it might have occurred to him that those were all signs of Polyjuice.

 

“Was it?” Hermione prodded, her voice climbing to earsplitting octaves, “How do we know?”

 

“Because.” Because everything she’d had to say about his mother he wanted so badly to believe. Because last night and the day before he had thought Narcissa Malfoy gave a damn about him. If Rosie was one of his father’s spies… if Rosie was anyone else… He dropped his gaze.

 

He amended his previous statement with, “She seemed familiar all the same, not that that means anything. There are dozens of people at the Manor. I’m sure I’ve conversed with quite a few of them from time to time.” A hesitation. “She knew _so much_ about my mother. Private things.”

 

Hermione didn’t seem comforted by the idea of Draco finding her familiar. Her sigh sounded distinctly upset. Draco couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

 

Did his father not trust him? The thought made the blood run cold in his veins. After everything he’d done, sending a spy after him? He had bent over backwards trying to get Granger to trust him. He’d been so sodding _nice_ to her. In his lap, his hands began to tremble and he clenched them tightly so that she wouldn’t notice.

 

“She could have been anybody,” repeated Hermione. Her gaze zoned in on the book on the table and she shivered.

 

Draco was looking at it too. It seemed evil now; sinister. Paranoia made him twitchy; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. If his father had sent a spy, then his father had doubts. Did he trust Lucius in light of that? Glancing around his rooms, he tried to shake the feeling that there were eyes everywhere.

 

That was the exact moment that hers found his. He held her gaze steady in his panic and saw everything he was feeling reflected on her face. It was odd seeing her like that. Odd too knowing that she felt that horrible on-your-own reality. She was the only one he couldn’t remember lying to him. She was too quick tempered for that; too righteous. His peripheral vision grew cloudy until all he could see was her. Them against everything else.

 

He wasn’t sure who moved. He liked to think it was her, although it could have just as easily been him. Whoever did it, the end result was the same. He put an arm out but Hermione was already there, cuddling into his side. He wanted her to cry because he couldn’t. Apparently neither could she. He could still see the gleam in her eyes but she was too proud now. Beyond tears.

 

Strangely, he was proud too.

 

They sat like that in silence for quite sometime, the clock above his mantel ticking off the minutes. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs and it was all just so fucked up that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. He should have killed her under that spell. He should have left her in the woods to die. He should have ended it.

 

It was Hermione who spoke at last, so softly that he almost didn’t hear her.

 

“This is strange.”

 

Draco wanted to better see her face but even with all the adjusting in the world all he could see was one ear, one eye, and a lot of hair. “What is?”

 

“Everything.” A snort. “I’m sitting here feeling almost friendly towards you and that’s just bloody unusual.”

 

He said quite honestly, “I suppose that’s true. I haven’t thought about killing you in a good ten seconds.”

 

She took his words as a joke and giggled rather hollowly. Silence then. Nothing but that blasted clock.

 

“I don’t blame you for what happened to Dumbledore,” was what she said next.

 

Hermione’s words shocked him so fully that he almost shook her right off the couch. Arching an eyebrow at him, she inched away but not out of reach. Feeling utterly flummoxed, he gawked at her.

 

“Dumbledore? Where in the bleeding hell did that come from?”

 

Her smile was sad and distant. “I think about it all the time when I’m with you. I think about a lot of things when I’m with you. What a fool I am to have to trust you. How much I used to hate you. Even if you knew everything that happened, you couldn’t even begin to guess how hard it is for me to look at you. I wish it had been anyone but you to find me in those woods. I know everything you are and I hate being stuck in this situation with you. Only I don’t exactly hate _you_. And I’ve never blamed you.”

 

For once, Draco Malfoy was struck speechless. Swallowing hard, he looked everywhere but at her. Dumbledore was something he did not discuss ever. Period. Granger could come in here anytime she wanted, words that he could twist for his father tumbling out of her mouth at lightning speed, but Draco did not talk with her. There was no sharing. This was not a friendship.

 

Still, her words hit something inside of him hard and he could not think of a single witty and dismissive line. And so she continued.

 

“I understand why you did it. Harry said… well, it came out that you worried for your family if you couldn’t do it. I understand that, Draco. Really, I do. Good old rock and a hard place, right? I’m not trying to condone what happened. But I see how you got there.”

 

“I didn’t kill him,” he snapped, feeling testy and claustrophobic. She was staring at him, insightful and not damning in the least, and something about it made him blurt out what he said next, something he’d never said out loud before. “I couldn’t kill him. I hesitated.”

 

He wanted to clap his hands to his mouth as soon as the words were out. Wished they were tangible things that he could snatch out of the air and bury back down inside of himself. Hermione tilted her head, looking for all the world like a dog after a bone.

 

“You say it like you’re ashamed of that. I could have done it. Especially now. _That’s_ something to be ashamed of.”

 

“Kill the bastard who did this to you then. Do whatever the hell you want, just stop talking about me.”

 

Her smile was positively patronizing, not that he could look at her long enough to really see it. He was surprised when she stood.

 

“It might not have come from Rosie,” she said, pulling the book off of his table contemplatively, “but it still isn’t a bad idea. I’m going to go practice it. Sit around and clear my mind.”

 

“Now?” he demanded, gawking at her.

 

“Yes, now. I can’t stay in your room forever. Good night, Draco.”

 

“Night,” was his dumbfounded reply.

 

He watched her walk to the door. Stared at its heavy wooden surface until it clunked shut behind her. Then he stared at the empty spot on his table where the book had sat and thought about absolutely nothing, a heavy cold feeling weighing on his heart.

 

**

 

Using the owlery seemed like a barmy idea but Pansy could not think of a better way to get a note to Draco privately. She had entertained the idea of bringing it to his rooms but felt unusually paranoid about finding Granger there. She did not want to set up anything; did not want to accidentally halt any plan in a way that might hurt her best friend.

 

Curfew was inching her way and she felt inexplicably lucky that Seamus had accompanied her here. The sun had set early like it was want to do in the winter and being in the owlery was giving her a good case of the shivers.

 

Quickly she withdrew a piece of paper from within her coat and a pencil stub that Seamus had leant her. Trying to make her writing legible even as she squinted in the dark, she leaned the paper on a beam and began to write.

 

“D,” her note began quite simply, “I’ve got to talk to you ASAP. Something urgent has come up. Meet me at the pitch. P.”

 

Simple and to the point. Her days of ridiculously flowery letters were long gone. Straightening, she beckoned at a common school owl and went about giving it her letter. Tried her hardest to ignore the sickening slip of bird dung beneath her shoes.

 

“Be quick,” she instructed, “This is very important.”

 

Pansy stayed in the tower until the owl was gone, hooting at her in annoyance as she shooed it out the window. Then, confident that she had done what was right, she picked her way carefully to the stairs and went to find Seamus.

 

**TBC...**   


 

[Previous Parts](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).


	7. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been asked a few times how long this is. When I wrote it on paper, it was ten chapters. Then, being a wishy-washy person, I scrapped chunks of it and changed it and accidentally created massive plot holes. I’m thinking even with my changes it’ll probably end up at about that. Maybe twelve. Just so you know. :)

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Six  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : If only Draco was decisive enough for decisive decisions… Just so you know, this chapter is darker than the last. But it will be followed with not quite fluff! Maybe. :)  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters.

 

  


  
_“As darkness sets in unavoidable sin_  
The truth I try not to believe  
That I reached I reached  
Through the rain to the devil's feet…” 

__

 

__\- Azure Ray’s “The Devil’s Feet”

 

 

“That fucker!”

 

Beside him in the stands, Pansy Parkinson jerked away from him so violently that she almost pitched herself right off of the seat. She had known that what she had to tell him would not sit well. She had known all kinds of things. Rarely had she known Draco Malfoy to be angry enough to swear out loud. Sure, she fancied he did it in his head all of the time. He had a special little forehead twitch reserved only for times of great angst that probably signaled a mental swearing streak horrible enough to make a sailor cringe.

 

Sitting beside her right now, Draco Malfoy had gone a strange shade of purple and his forehead was twitching so violently she was surprised it didn’t leap right off of his face. He was actually shaking with suppressed rage; every single cell inside of her was screaming, “Run!”

 

“It’s not enough that he took my seat at the table,” Draco was ranting, pumping his fist hard enough against his palm to make it sting, “It’s not enough that he stole Crabbe and Goyle from me. It’s not enough that he’s wasting all of his time trying to get into your knickers. All of Slytherin hates me because of him! What more can that pathetic slimy pillock want? Oh, I’ll tell you. He wants to betray me! He’s setting me up! Do you have any idea what I’ve done so far to get this plan in motion? I’ve practically whored myself out to that Gryffindor bint! Fucking hell! That damned bastard. I’ll see him pay for this. The dungeons at the Manor are _legendary_. Bet Father’s got a rack or two lying around collecting dust. I’ll string him up on that, I’ll find those thumb crushers, I’ll fill a fucking metal boot with boiling water, I’ll-”

 

“Calm down, that’s what you’ll do!” Pansy cried, sending a distressed look in the direction of the locker rooms. The Ravenclaw team had retired forty five minutes ago and, while she’d thought she’d seen them all file out, she was not nearly as caught up on emotion as Draco and had sense enough to be afraid of stragglers.

 

For his part, Draco was beyond sense. Thinking about everything his father had said the Muggles did to witches and wizards being applied to Zabini was calming him down slightly but not enough to be aware of anything outside of his own personal anger. Even Pansy’s hand persistently tugging on his sleeve was not enough to bring him down from the high of his rage.

 

He couldn’t believe it. He abso-fucking-lutely could not believe it. He had assumed obviously erroneously that what he and his father were doing had been handed down to them especially. Wasn’t he pathetic! Wasn’t he stupid! He should have known that Voldemort would never trust an assignment to the Boy-Who-Couldn’t-Kill and his jailbird father. But then they weren’t alone in it. Obviously there were other people. Someone took his messages from the tree; someone had done the deed in the first place.

 

But Zabini? My God! The boy was a dimwit. He was nothing more than a rip off Draco himself. Every little trick he had had been learned from him and it was just entirely too much to think that Zabini meant to weasel his slimy way in there in order to actually take Granger in the end. If anybody was going to take Granger, it was going to be Draco Malfoy. He hadn’t been acting like her bloody personal handkerchief for the last few weeks to lose out. Good God, it made him mad enough to want to vomit. After he was done thumb screwing, racking, and scalding Zabini of course.

 

“What are you going to do? Draco?”

 

Pansy’s voice barely managed to penetrate through the violent fog of his thoughts, it came out so soft and distant. Glancing at her, he was surprised to see that she was rather frightened. Her brows were pulled close together and she was angled so far away from him that they were hardly sitting on the same bench. It took an immense concentration to tamper down his rage into something cold and manageable but he knew throwing a temper tantrum wouldn’t exactly endeavor Pansy to confide Zabini’s secrets in him ever again. He nearly choked swallowing the vitriol he wanted to spew.

 

“I need to think,” he replied, so level and calm that it even scared him a little.

 

“Think about what? There’s nothing to think about. You need to untangle this mess. You need to make Potter come back here. He’ll see what’s going on or else he’ll blunder onto it eventually and then he’ll deal with Zabini. It needs never go as far as You-Know-Who. You’re expendable to him, Draco, can’t you see that? You need to end this now.”

 

Well that was only the worst idea he’d ever heard. Concede defeat? Sneakily let Potter in on all of his problems? He’d rather pitch himself off the stands this instant rather than go through with that.

 

“That won’t work. Zabini needs to pay. He needs to-”

 

Mittened hands flew over top of her ears and she scrunched up her nose. “Please no more torture. _Please_ just do what’s right. I don’t know what’s been planned for Granger but you know it won’t be good. She doesn’t _deserve_ that.” She sounded whiny and pleading; cringed to hear herself.

 

Draco didn’t reply. Sightlessly, he stared out over the pitch. His father needed to be notified. Things needed to be stepped up a notch and he didn’t _want_ to hear what Granger did or did not deserve. Truthfully he didn’t think she deserved it either but that was neither here nor there. He didn’t want to think about her period. She was nothing to him. Nothing. And so.

 

“Don’t talk about Granger. Don’t talk like you know anymore than what Zabini’s told you.”

 

Her eyes widened. “You know about the plan, then? What’s going to happen to her?”

 

The memory of Hermione begging him not to tell came flying out of nowhere and clobbered him directly over the head. He gave it to her as a last concession. Vowed that it would be the last thing he’d ever do in consideration of Muggleborn witch. Practice spells with her indeed. He needed to remember where his loyalties lay.

 

And he _did not_ feel sad!

 

“Nothing. It isn’t any of your business. Nothing has happened to her.”

 

She didn’t believe him, he knew that. Instead she tried a different tactic.

 

“You’ve been spending a great deal of time with her,” she began tactically, even though she doubted it would work, “Perhaps nothing _does_ have to happen to her. If you step out now, Potter can stop it and you’ll both get out of it no worse for the wear. Do you not care about her even a little?”

 

He shook his head, a curt little lie, and tried not to think about the smart box sitting on his desk. Looking at the pitch made him think of her too and so he fixed his gaze hard on Pansy. Her expression was one of abject disappointment and he found he couldn’t bear to look at her either.

 

Sighing, he kicked at the ground and said, “Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason. You’re going to have to let me do this my way, Pansy.”

 

“What’s the right reason, Draco? I have trouble remembering these days. I’m being pulled in all directions. It’ll drive me mad. What with you, Seamus, and Zabini…”

 

He shrugged. “Wizard supremacy. Muggle abolition. It sounds cold, doesn’t it?”

 

This time she had a sad little smile for him. “Do you want her abolished, Draco? Because I don’t think you do. You’ve been different lately. _Driven_. Only now I don’t like to think what drives you.”

 

Neither did he.

 

“The same thing as always, Pans. Nothing’s changed.”

 

“You’re wrong. You’re all wrong. _Everything_ has and you know it.”

 

**

 

By the time Draco got back to his rooms, he’d had time to think clearly without being constantly interrupted by pleasant mental images of Zabini’s gory torture and subsequent death. Even as he slunk past Granger’s door (and he had slunk, slowly and cautiously and like a dirty low criminal), he was separating himself from her mentally. He could not remember what it had been like having her sleep away her troubles in his bed; could not remember how fiercely she had comforted him during his best forgotten collapse. It didn’t matter that she was smart. It didn’t matter if he respected her fortitude. If what he was about to do stripped her of her fighting chance and reduced her to a big blubbering blob then that was for his own conscience to mall over later. Now was the time for action. Now was the time to do what he should have done the moment he found Granger in the forest.

 

It was time to break her. Coldly. Meticulously. Like his father would have done.

 

Stalking directly to his desk, he pulled out a crisp piece of paper and a fresh quill. He hesitated for only a moment; then he recalled that that one note exchanging Arithmancy class had not even happened as far as he was concerned. Quibbled with words for a moment longer, doubting his nerve even though the fact of the matter was that he could not- did not- care. The time for friendly games with Granger- with the _Mudblood_ \- had come to an end.

 

So he wrote, heart pounding hollowly in his chest. His field of vision narrowed; his whole world became nothing but the scribbles on the page. He felt vaguely similar to the way he’d felt the night he’d faced off with Dumbledore. Empty, resigned. This time there would be no backing down. Not everyone was given a second chance and he’d be damned if Zabini took it from him.

 

It was like his hand operated all on its own. He watched the quill move back and forth, up and down; saw from a distance that it said, “Father, G. doing too well. Has mental fortitude to make plans. Perhaps a present is in order. Send her one and watch her break. Beware Zabini. Has plans to take over in the end so as to steal glory. Signed, D.”

 

A horrible note. A dispassionate death sentence for Granger. But then when had he ever even considered himself to be her fighting chance? Never. Bloody unlikely. So.

 

Feeling grim, he tucked it into the pockets of his robes and left his room for the tree tucked far back into the Forbidden Forest. Thought the fact that he wasn’t even remotely afraid to go there said it all.

 

**

 

The next morning in the Great Hall he was ashamed to find he could not look at her. He’d had a horrible sleep, plagued by dreams of an unknown assailant taking everything from Granger, of her dying without a word, and knew it showed on his face. He felt low and shame ridden in the light of day and was terrified that Granger would know him for the guilty party he was if she so much as made eye contact with him. He didn’t particularly want to know what was coming for her.

 

He wondered when the present would arrive. Wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure this. Strictly, he reminded himself that everything he was doing would win him favour with Voldemort; would open the doors to the life he wanted to lead. Draco craved the Dark Mark, needed it like air. Anything else was a strict and horrid failure, the kind a simpleton might make. He wanted his father to come into the Manor, cutting a striking figure, and look at him again without disappointment in his eyes. He wanted to be the Dark Side’s Harry fucking Potter. None of this playing nice with the Gryffindors crap.

 

He couldn’t look at Zabini either although that was more out of fear that he would suddenly realize he could kill _really_ well.

 

From across the Hall, Draco heard Granger laugh at something the She Weasel had said and the sound cut through him like a knife. She wouldn’t be laughing soon. She’d be a right mess soon, if that letter of his didn’t push her right off the deep end. Hell, it didn’t even matter what got sent to her immediately. More pleasant little gifts would follow and she’d crumble eventually. Girl wasn’t made of stone, after all. Oh, how he wanted to feel anticipation.

 

His appetite for his eggs was completely gone and breakfast was turning out to be completely useless.

 

Groaning quietly to himself, he decided to make a quick exit in order to find himself a seat far away from Granger in Advanced Arithmancy. Longingly he thought of the days when she was too afraid to attend classes. Too afraid to leave her rooms. Then he thought of how she had stolen his notes, quick and efficient as a born pickpocket, and thought that he probably shouldn’t be thinking at all.

 

The corridor was empty when he made his exit and he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t think _he_ could handle being bombarded by Pansy anytime soon. It was a sobering realization to think that he would soon lose the both of them, the only two people in the whole school who had bothered being nice to him.

 

Means to an end, Draco. Means to an end.

 

He made his way down the deserted corridors as silently as a thief, listening to the empty and impersonal rhythm his shoes beat out against the stones. Rather than dwelling on Granger, he thought instead of all the people who had once revered him; dozens of tiny Slytherins saying his name on an awestruck whisper. “He’s Draco Malfoy. He’s _Lucius_ Malfoy’s son. I heard You-Know-Who went to his christening.” Was so tired of this shunning business.

 

He made it to the classroom well before anybody else and took a seat in the back corner, placing his bag on the chair so that nobody could sit beside him. Then he folded his arms and rested his head in the shallow enclosure they created, determined to miss her entrance.

 

It seemed his luck was meant to hold. She was not the first person in. In fact she did not enter until the middle of the pack. He noticed without meaning to that her eyes darted to his bag; that she sucked in a confused breath like she’d actually meant to sit with him. He watched her walk to a seat at the front, posture ramrod straight and proud. Thought _I’m about to take that all away from you._

 

_Lucius Malfoy’s son_ and that made him feel a little bit better. He told the traitorous voice that whispered after his mother to shove it; nothing that not-Rosie had said was real anyway.

 

Cue Professor Vector’s entrance. More glad to see her than he ever thought he would be, he pulled his notebook out of his bag and leaned forward, eager to put the whole thing temporarily behind him.

 

Even if the whole lesson passed on a confusing blur of numbers and equations that he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. Not today. Not with wondering what was going to happen.

 

Granger gave him until the end of the class to avoid her. Then, being persistent, she was out of her seat lightning quick. She managed to elbow her way to the front of the pack and caught up with Draco just as he was about to turn around the corner. Her hand shot out and he watched in slow motioned horror as it attached itself to his sleeve. Good thing he’d had time to remember that he loathed her touch.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, withdrawing his arm so fast that he more or less ended up elbowing himself in the ribs. Cringing, he sent his best intimidating scowl.

 

Granger was surprised, to say the least. Her already stiff posture stiffened more. He frowned at her when she shot him a confused look.

 

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, “You didn’t look in my direction once over breakfast.”

 

“What do you care? There are better people to look at in the Great Hall than _you_. Take Crabbe or Goyle for instance. How about Millicent? I don’t _need_ to look at you to find pleasure. Quite the opposite in fact.” Because he hated her hair. Because he hated her. Because it had been _so_ long.

 

Eyebrows shot up high on her forehead at his suddenly acidic words. “What’s gotten you so defensive?”

 

“What’s gotten you so inquisitive? Sod off. I haven’t done anything. We’re _not_ friends.”

 

“Obviously,” she replied, tone positively shrewish even as her lips turned downwards with what he could only assume was hurt. Good. “I would never have made the mistake of thinking of such an anemic inbred in a positive light. I can’t believe I forgot how you can get. Get out of the hall before I take off points.”

 

“For what?!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms innocently wide, “Existing? Take off as many as you like, Granger.”

 

That said, he whirled on his heels, intent on taking another route to Potions before the reality of his behavior stopped feeling like triumph and started feeling like guilt. He couldn’t _wait_ until she got her present. Couldn’t bloody wait.

 

After Potions, he had the afternoon off. It was meant as a study period for him and he tried and tried to do that, closeted away in the safety of his bedroom. The pressure of dinner was too overwhelming and so he skipped it, opting instead to eat the slightly stale muffin he’d snatched at lunch.

 

All in all, it hadn’t been such a horrible day. There had been some awkward moments and he’d felt tense pretty much since waking up but he had known worse days in his time. He missed talking a little and, after giving his couch a good dressing down just to hear the sound of his own voice, he could think of nothing to do but to sit and wait.

 

Around seven o’clock, Draco began to watch his door with a paranoid intensity. He felt strange and reclusive, territorial of the small space he’d been given. He wished Granger would stop in to take the edge off his evening; he hoped he’d never see her again.

 

By nine o’clock he was feeling rather genuinely sorry for snapping at her. After all, she was about to get quite the unpleasant surprise via what he assumed would be owl post. The least he could have done was to have given her a few more hours.

 

When the clock on his mantel piece chimed ten, he had drifted off into a fitful sleep, still on his couch and still dressed in his school robes. Crumbs from his suppertime muffin littered his lap in such a manner that would have caused him great distress should he not have been feeling so out of sorts. His head was cocked at a truly uncomfortable angle; brow wrinkled and twitching. His tie was more or less choking him, loosened though it was. Still he slept, face sandwiched between the creases on the cushions and his posture still stiff with dread anticipation.

 

**

 

When Granger was not in the Great Hall for breakfast, Draco knew it had arrived. He imagined some unthreatening stock owl hammering its beak against the window. Would she have thought it a gift from Potty or the Weasel? Would she have considered summoning the Auror? Would she have thought of him?

 

Chewing contemplatively on a mouthful of fried bread, he wondered what it would be. He hadn’t thought much about the threats to her parents in awhile; now that he did he thought that using them against her was hitting a bit below the belt- hitting a bit too close to home as well. After all, he _got_ that. Another photo of someone else? A tad unoriginal but then whoever had done this to her was not exactly the most intelligent wizard ever born. Would it have been something really bad? She had mentioned that her assailant had kept her knickers. Cringed a little at the thought of something that gruesomely personal. Not that he’d feel bad, of course. A bit put upon maybe, being the one who’d have to go in there and comfort her all back to a state of quasi-normal so that the whole thing could begin again.

 

Her seat looked oddly empty.

 

A chanced look at Zabini over the rim of his coffee cup revealed that his brand new nemesis was glancing at the deserted space too, a positively feral expression clouding his face. How had Draco not noticed that before? Moreover, how hadn’t _Hermione_? The absolute hatred on his housemate’s face made even him flinch. He couldn’t imagine being on the receiving end of it. A burst of fury in Draco’s belly had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with Granger. There wasn’t even a point in lying over it. Nobody was allowed to hate her like that. She was his own personal Mudblood, wasn’t she? _He_ did the hating. Frowning now, he tried to push the feeling away with a hearty mouthful of mushrooms.

 

Zabini must have felt Draco’s gaze on him. Abruptly, he whipped his head in his direction, black eyes colliding with silver. There more than likely wasn’t fear in the other boy’s gaze but Draco liked to think there was. Triumph, perhaps. Like the whole thing was done and over with. Like he couldn’t just as easily find himself in Draco’s place should he fail.

 

Zabini looked away first.

 

Draco finished his breakfast quickly after that, stirring his eggs into his carefully sliced sausages and forking them all up at once with an appalling lack of manners. Washed it all down with the rest of his coffee.

 

He had Muggle Studies of all ridiculous things starting off his day, a class that McGonagall had strongly and loudly encouraged him to take upon his unwanted Hogwarts return, and seriously considered not going out of curiosity for whatever had befallen Granger this time. Had to be better than learning about Muggle communication, didn’t it? The telephone indeed.

 

Awhile later and Draco was quite confident that he could dial Hong Kong, should the need ever arise. Ancient Runes was next and Granger was not there either. Must have been something really bad, was his smug reasoning.

 

It wasn’t until his professor raised an eyebrow at the Head Girl’s absence that Draco felt the first bit of actual _worry_. Despite the fact that he knew she was okay, a niggling doubt began to form that perhaps she wasn’t. What if she’d been pushed over the deep end by whatever she’d gotten? What if she’d taken a page from his book and hurled herself off the Quidditch stands? What was she _doing_? The only real guarantee was that she was most likely alone and definitely hungry. Hell, he’d eaten quite the hearty breakfast and _his_ stomach felt like rumbling.

 

Frowning, he decided it was best to put Granger from his mind. The work in class today involved a particularly nasty looking set of ruins, just dying to be translated. He genuinely liked the class and thought that it made just as good of a distraction as anything. It was a shame that Granger had to miss it. It was just the sort of horribly complicated problem that she would have enjoyed. Lots of conjugation and different tenses, by the looks of things. Cringe worthy if you weren’t him.

 

However, by the end of class and with the translation mostly behind him, doubt began to filter back in. Passing Ginny in the hall cinched it. Her overheard whisper of, “What’s going on with Hermione? Have you seen her today?” just reinforced his not-quite-worry. Forgoing lunch would most likely kill him and he had no intention of skiving off his next class but surely a quick peek in on her wouldn’t hurt.

 

Mind made up, he turned around and began to make his way through the throng heading towards the Great Hall. He thought he could smell roast beef and his stomach rumbled alarmingly loud. Suppressing a grumble, he shouldered his bag higher and began to climb the stairs that led to their rooms.

 

To his great surprise, the Auror was actually out in the corridor. He was someone Draco did not recognize, a skinny not terribly brave looking redheaded boy. Most likely he was a distant relative of the Weasleys, they had so many. Had Granger called him then? Or was the Auror actually just doing the rounds he had heard so much about but had never actually witnessed?

 

Whatever the case, when Draco paused outside of Granger’s door, fist raised to bang against the paneling, the Auror was on him in an instant.

 

“You can’t go in there,” he announced, voice inflected with quiet steel. Ahh, a graduated Gryffindor then. Draco resisted the urge to scoff. “Miss Granger is feeling under the weather today. She wishes to be left alone.”

 

“Have you checked on her?” He didn’t mean for it to sound quite as snotty as it came out.

 

Something about his tone abruptly cued the Auror onto who he was, just in case his Malfoy sneer and blinding hair hadn’t already been an indication. Much to Draco’s consternation, he merely smirked at him.

 

“Mr. Malfoy, I can guarantee you that Miss Granger is being looked after,” was his patronizing response, “I can’t imagine what more _you_ could do.”

 

“I have her homework,” he replied quickly, not even aware of the lie until it fell from his lips. Heh, worked just as good as anything. He hoped he looked terribly believable when he patted his bag for confirmation. “You can take a look if you like. Are you a Legilimins? There’s always that. I’d prefer it if you didn’t actually touch my things.” Prayed good and hard that he wasn’t.

 

The Auror sighed and rolled his eyes. “You can go in and give it to her. I’ll be outside, Mr. Malfoy. If she doesn’t welcome you or if you try anything, I’ll know.”

 

Oh, whatever. Stepping unnervingly close behind the Auror as he mumbled Granger’s password, Draco wasted no time in shooting past him inside and slamming the door in his face. Chances were that after yesterday’s snappy little conversation, she most likely wouldn’t welcome him. Draco didn’t want to be dragged from the premise just yet, thanks ever so.

 

Granger’s rooms, despite the fact that it was clearly after noon, were disorientating and dark. She’d pulled her curtains and had turned off all of the lights, making all of her proud (proudly _nauseating_ ) Gryffindor furnishings appear dull and grey. He didn’t see her on his first quick perusal; didn’t see her in the bedroom either when he peeped through the door.

 

Worry shot through him once more, stronger and more apparent this time. Had they _taken_ her? So soon? Bad plan if they had. She wasn’t nearly broken enough. And besides, wouldn’t somebody have _told_ him? He’d passed Zabini on the way up here so knew that she hadn’t left via that route. Not to mention that there was an Auror just outside of the door. For whatever reason, he checked her windows and found them all closed and latched.

 

“Granger?” he called, unnerved and eerie, “It’s Malfoy. Where _are_ you?”

 

No response was immediately forthcoming but a brief commotion shortly afterwards in the area of her living room had him spinning around, wand drawn and eyes darting to and fro. It was only Crookshanks who emerged from around the other side of the couch, coming to rub against Draco’s legs as he paused his search.

 

“Oh, look who it is,” he greeted the cat, stooping low to scratch it behind the ears, “Do you know how much cat hair I found after your little nap on my trousers? Where’s Hermione? Is she here?”

 

“What do you want him to say? Cats can’t speak.”

 

The sudden voice startled Draco. He jumped and rocked uncertainly on his heels. Then, balance regained, he followed it to the particularly dark area around her couch. He saw Crookshanks’ cat bed first, pushed up against the wall and lined with an old and ratty blanket.

 

Beside that on the floor was another stack of blankets. Her Gryffindor quilt and a patchwork he presumed was from home. The whole stack had been shoved against the cat bed, the front of the pile facing out to where Crookshanks would be if he was still sleeping. A metal bowl had been placed close to the pile, much to his confusion. It took him a moment to realize that Granger had nestled herself underneath the blankets and was laying at his feet, perfectly still and quiet.

 

Crookshanks wiggled through his ankles and returned to his own bed, pausing to butt foreheads with his mistress on the way. A hand shot out from under the pile of comforters to rub blindly at his back; then it disappeared and the Granger lump flopped onto what he guessed was her stomach.

 

Draco’s first thought was that Granger had been injured. Dropping down beside her, he ran his hands over her form, quick and professional. Everything felt normal and she didn’t jar away from him during any of it, so he assumed he wasn’t hurting her. A head injury then, since she’d obviously been struck dumb. He couldn’t even recall her so quiet.

 

It took a moment of digging to find her head underneath the blankets; he shoved his fingers into her hair and prodded along her scalp, looking for a bump or a cut or anything really. Against his palms, her eyelashes felt spiky and damp but she was not crying right then. Frowning, he reached down further into the blankets and pulled her up by her arms, propping her against the wall. She was a horribly pliant thing; the moment he released her, she slumped back down.

 

“Granger? What’s happened? Where does it hurt?”

 

But she only shook her head and rolled away from him so that all he could see was bushy hair and the lump of blankets covering her back. Surprised by her stubborn resistance, he sat down beside her. Never mind that he wasn’t used to sitting on the floor beside a cat bed and a blanket covered girl. Carefully, he placed his hand on her back and gave her a little shake.

 

Hermione ignored that too. Was this it then, he wondered? Was this what she would be like broken? He realized abruptly that he had done this to her this time. _He_ had stolen her fire by demanding the delivery of another present. Draco sucked in a quick breath and forgot about lunch for the first time since leaving Ancient Runes.

 

But his alarming inability to follow through with anything was his problem. Granger clearly had problems of her own and, even if it didn’t sit well, it was his job to uncover them; to turn them into words and feelings and things that could hurt her. Strangely though, a genuine concern was crowding that out. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sidled closer.

 

“Hermione, you can tell me.”

 

She flopped over onto her back so that she could see him and he was startled by how truly awful she looked. Her eyes were puffy; her cheeks pale. Perhaps she _was_ sick. He was hardly a medi-wizard.

 

But then no. Abruptly, her hand shot out again, offering out a few pieces of parchment for his perusal. Ahh, the present. When he took them, she sat up on her own. Pulling the blankets around her head and shoulders like a cocoon, she stared out at him, face shrewd and judging.

 

“That came for me this morning. Read it, Draco. I want to watch you read it.”

 

Her tone chilled him. She sounded so overwhelmingly _suspicious_. Hesitatingly, he glanced at her eyes and then down at the papers. Words loped across the page, slanted and dark against the white paper.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“A letter. A _love_ letter. Read it.”

 

Only that he didn’t want to. Its opening line (“ _To my darling lover_ …”) made his blood run cold and he just didn’t think he had the stomach to go on. It was one thing to send his father trifling notes about her condition. He didn’t like to think about what had actually _caused_ her condition.

 

The image of her laying in the snow, bleeding and hysterical, seared through his mind.

 

“I’d rather not. Don’t you think this is a bit personal?”

 

She tried an impression of a smile but it looked acidic and painful. “You know what happened. I’m sure you could fill in the blanks. There’s nothing there you wouldn’t know if you thought about it. Go on.”

 

It sounded like an ultimatum so he took a deep breath and let his gaze drift to the parchment. Following the opening line, the letter only got worse. He made it through the first paragraph feeling purposely detached; skimmed over the trifling endearments her attacker was using to sweetheart her into dread. The writer was surprisingly eloquent and clearly was comfortable with word play. The whole thing read thus far like a warped declaration of love; if he hadn’t known what was coming and that everything in it was said with a sadistic undertone he might have been fooled by that first paragraph.

 

If he needed proof of the writer’s insanity, he found it in the next one. The writer described with startling clarity the act of carving up her wrist. Feeling detached abruptly grew a lot more difficult; the ugly descriptions more than threatened to yank him back down to earth. It made him sick to read about how the knife had sliced through her skin, how the blood had flowed freely into the snow, dirtying it with her impurities.

 

The act of cutting her had obviously been a point of great arousal for the writer; as for Draco, he felt feverish and chilled. He remembered her mangled wrist and could bring the image of the crudely carved Dark Mark to mind without any trouble. Swallowing the bile it brought to his throat, he subconsciously shot a hand underneath her blankets. His searching fingers found her healed wrist and he ran his thumb over her tendons without thought as he read on. Hermione kept her wrist limp but she did not withdraw it, too busy searching his face for whatever it was she wanted to find.

 

And the _next_ one. He tried to read it. He tried so hard that a fine layer of sweat broke out on his forehead. Gulping for air, he read about the Stupefied Granger shoved on the ground, legs wrenched open and unable to move. He thought of the silent screams that must have been going through her mind; of how her robes had been torn when he found her. He attempted to keep going, to push forward, but the room was spinning and he felt hot and cold all over. The lines detailing her “dirty Mudblood cunt” were too much. He felt dirty reading it. He felt like _he’d_ raped her himself, being responsible for the delivery of this letter. All at once, he realized he was going to be reacquainted with his breakfast- and soon.

 

Dropping her wrist, dropping her letter, he pushed himself to his feet and took off in the direction of her bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet. Gripping the bowl, he vomited so hard and so violently that he saw stars. The seat was cold against his cheek and for a moment he rested there, waiting for the nausea to pass.

 

The sounds of his wretching seemed to set Hermione off too and he suddenly realized what the metal bowl on the floor beside her was for. Closing his eyes, he stood and went to the sink. He didn’t feel better until he’d splashed cold water on his face, until he’d gurgled great gulps of it, and even then it wasn’t much of an improvement. He made it back into the living room in time to see her wipe at her mouth with the back of her hand as she preformed a quick _Scourgify_ with her wand gripped in the other. She slumped pathetically back onto the floor and he joined her, trying not to look at her even as guilt threatened to drive him from the room.

 

“Wasn’t that a disgusting bonding experience,” he offered in reference to them both being sick. When she didn’t answer, he felt so full of shame that he had to lean against the wall. Weakly, he added, “I’m sorry, Hermione.” _Meant_ it.

 

She shrugged, mistaking his words. “It’s alright, Draco.”

 

Only it wasn’t. “No. I’m sorry you got this letter. I’m sorry I snapped at you in the hall. I’m _sorry_.” An all encompassing statement.

 

Hermione nodded against her blankets, trying all the while to edge away from the letter he’d dropped on the floor. He nudged it with the toe of his shoe, not wanting to touch it again.

 

“Are you going to be sick again?” she asked eventually.

 

He wondered if she’d seen what she’d been looking for when he read the letter.

 

“No. Are you?”

 

“I… I don’t think so. I’ve been sick so many times I don’t think I’ve got much left in my stomach.”

 

Draco was sure he had a sausage or two. He could feel them flipping around, making his stomach gurgle and his throat burn at the mere thought of the act. He felt like spitting.

 

Gentling his voice, he inquired, “So is this it, then?”

 

He hoped she didn’t hear just how much he was rooting for her in spite of himself. If she did, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she sat up too and leaned against him.

 

“I’m tired, Draco. I’m so tired. I thought once my parents were threatened… I thought that was the worst of it. I can’t take much more of this. I don’t want another letter; I don’t want to know what else he has in store. I feel _done_.”

 

“Nonsense,” he contradicted, uneasy with the thought of her just _stopping_ , “You’re Hermione Granger. You’re Harry Potter’s best mate. You’ve faced all sorts of things. We’ll just get rid of this letter right quick and you’ll just deal with whatever comes next. You’re too strong to lay down in a corner and die with your face all smashed into your cat bed. That’s just pathetic.” A pause. “Unless you want to tell McGonagall? The Auror is right outside.”

 

She shook her head; he resisted the urge to push her curls out of her eyes. “I don’t want her to know about this. I told you that. I don’t want anybody to know. Let’s just get rid of it.”

 

Hermione balked at picking it up off of the floor and so Draco did it, holding it out and away from him. He half crawled to her fireplace and smashed it far down inside of the grate. He waited until she crawled over next to him, dragging the blankets with her, before touching it with the tip of his wand.

 

“ _Incendio._ ”

 

The letter went right up, pages curling as the flames from his spell licked at it. He watched the curling black cursive turn inwards on itself; watched until there was nothing left but ashes. Beside him, he heard her sigh of relief. Tried not to think about what would happen next.

 

Presently, she asked, “Did you recognize the writing?”

 

Draco shook his head. “No. Even if I’d seen it before, there are spells that can disguise it. It was written surprisingly well, wasn’t it? Almost like he was educated.”

 

Hermione shuddered, knocking into him. “What makes you think he isn’t?”

 

“Well, it’s _obvious_. Only a brute would do such a thing.”

 

She gurgled out a half sob half laugh. “Oh, Draco.”

 

He shrugged, believing fully in what he considered to be a fact, and moved back to the wall. Loosening his tie, he watched her continue to stare at the small smoking stack and wished he could be as hard as he had to be. He didn’t _want_ to see her and feel bad about how things were going for her; he had done so much better all morning when he _hadn’t_ seen her. The eager triumph he had felt left him feeling drained now and he had the strangest desire to touch her, to comfort her. If only his future wasn’t so inline with her destruction, he would have wanted to stop all of this. Even as it was, Pansy’s plan of alerting Potter seemed more appealing by the second.

 

Only he couldn’t. It didn’t matter that he hated himself a bit for it.

 

Leaning against the wall, he beckoned to her. “Come sit with me, how about.”

 

She had obviously been waiting for an invitation to be comforted. Despite the burden of her blankets, she made it back in front of him relatively quickly. Sucking in a harsh breath, she looked at the empty space beside him. Then, she looked at him. He felt as though his soul was bared. He felt impure and awful under her gaze.

 

Hermione didn’t see that. Apparently she saw something else entirely. Adjusting her angle, she wiggled backwards into the space between his legs and let her back rest against his chest. He froze, uncomfortable and surprised. His hesitation was too much for her; he felt her whole body shake with suppressed sobs. Time ticked by until eventually she reached behind her for his arms. Drawing them around herself, she made a noise that wasn’t quite crying.

 

It was awkward to have his arms about her and not be holding her. Dithering over it mentally, he gave her a light squeeze. When that felt alright and he did not burst into flames, he cuddled her into him closer and began to fiddle with the material of the sleeves of her sweater; even went so far as tucking them both up underneath her blankets. Her weight made him feel better; grounded in the middle of such turmoil. The fact that he genuinely didn’t want anything else to happen to her seemed to be the only real fact he could grasp onto.

 

Draco Malfoy was a horrible person.

 

When she spoke, the sound of her voice surprised him.

 

“Do you think I’m dirty?” she whispered, “I feel dirty.”

 

That was how he felt too, after reading that. He hugged her tighter and just barely managed to fight the urge to find the top of her head with his cheek. Was surprised to find that he didn’t think she was. Not at all.

 

“No. I don’t. What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

 

What was going to happen to her was his. Surely he didn’t mean to squeeze her as hard as he did.

 

Hermione didn’t respond to that overly much. He felt as much as heard her sigh and then she fell solemnly silent.

 

Guilt drove out what he said next. “Look out for Zabini, Hermione. You can’t trust him. Don’t go with him, do you hear me? If he needs any sort of help from you or anything like that, he’s lying.”

 

She nodded but did not speak.

 

“I can’t help you anymore than that.” It sounded like a plea. “Really, I can’t. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t otherwise. It’s only that I’m being pulled in so many different directions. Surely you know that.”

 

She turned in his arms enough so that she could see his face. Something sparked in her eyes, something he had not seen in awhile. It was the same expression he recalled from her S.P.E.W days and was rightly unsettling to see directed at him.

 

Another ghost of a smile. “Well then, Malfoy, I’m just going to have to pull harder.”

 

He choked out a laugh at that and thought _isn’t she something else_. So that he wouldn’t have to answer, he gave into the urge to rest his cheek in her hair. It was surprisingly soft against his face. He clenched his eyes shut.

 

Relaxing into him, she repeated her vow. “Maybe _I_ can help you. Just so you know, I think my intent is purely selfish. It hardly makes me a good person. But just so you know. I’m quite persistent. I can pull just as hard as anyone else.”

 

Didn’t he know it. He hated that he was clinging to her, thinking of Seamus and Pansy and the hard way out that seemed so easy in the darkness of her rooms. He could smell the remnants of their fire and then there was that too. He could never forget that. He was _not_ Pansy.

 

Desperately, he took a deep breath and tried to hold her passively. Tried to wish the whole thing away. Closing his eyes, he told himself that when he opened them again, he’d be a nobody, too unimportant to bother with Voldemort and Potty and the whole damned thing. When he opened his eyes, none of this would be here and everything would be alright.

 

“The Christmas hols are next week. People are going to go home soon. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

 

Her voice jarred his reverie enough that he had to blink. And it _was_ funny. He was quite sure he’d never felt any less festive. He almost asked her if she was sure but then hadn’t they been passing notes in Arithmancy about just that?

 

“Didn’t that sneak up.”

 

“Are you still staying?”

 

He tried to imagine going home. “Of course. After all, you promised me a Butterbeer.”

 

She chuckled. “Oh yes, but you _wanted_ Firewhiskey.”

 

“Ah. I’ll settle.”

 

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Then, “Draco? Do you think Christmas could be a break for me too? And for you? I’m sorry to keep running to you. Wouldn’t it be nice? I know we can’t _forget_ but maybe we can pretend. Maybe there’s power in pretending. At least that way I’m not being weak, or at least not directly.”

 

It was like she’d read his bloody mind. Hell, he was more than okay with that. He’d write to his father tonight and tell him that Granger was beyond messed up. He’d write that every single day of the hols to ensure a break. It was the least he could do, after all.

 

“I think so, Hermione. I think that would be very nice.”

 

If she smiled he couldn’t see it but he liked to think she was. “I agree. It’s just what we need. A break.”

 

**TBC…** It’s just what _I_ need too. Enough with the darkness! Bring on the Christmas holidays! Next time. :)

 

**Author’s Notes:** I’ve been asked a few times how long this is. When I wrote it on paper, it was ten chapters. Then, being a wishy-washy person, I scrapped chunks of it and changed it and accidentally created massive plot holes. I’m thinking even with my changes it’ll probably end up at about that. Maybe twelve. Just so you know. :)

 

Also, I ran out of the song I was using (all but one verse I want to use later, anyway). Still by Azure Ray, though.  


 

[Previous Parts](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html)


	8. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [](http://darth-luna.livejournal.com/profile)[darth_luna](http://darth-luna.livejournal.com/), who gave me advice and sparked the muse. ;) Also, I have taken many liberties with Dervish and Banges. I have no idea whether or not they sell what I’ve decided they do. “Magical items” is ever so vague. Artistic license! In fact, I’ve taken artistic license with mostly everything because we’re moving, I’ve packed up my HP books, and fact checking proved to be difficult without them. Please accept my apologies! I tried to use the [The HP Lexicon](http://www.hp-lexicon.org) as much as I could. Oh, and if you're curious, please see the second note at the end. :)

**Title** : Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter** : Seven  
 **Author** : Edie  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Story Summary** : He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary** : It’s Christmas time at Hogwarts. Hermione and Draco attempt to forget but, when one is as heavily involved as Draco, sometimes that can be dangerous in and of itself.  
 **Disclaimer** : Completely and utterly not my characters.  
 **Author’s Notes** : Thanks to [](http://darth-luna.livejournal.com/profile)[**darth_luna**](http://darth-luna.livejournal.com/) , who gave me advice and sparked the muse. ;) Also, I have taken many liberties with Dervish and Banges. I have no idea whether or not they sell what I’ve decided they do. “Magical items” is ever so vague. Artistic license! In fact, I’ve taken artistic license with mostly everything because we’re moving, I’ve packed up my HP books, and fact checking proved to be difficult without them. Please accept my apologies! I tried to use the [The HP Lexicon](http://www.hp-lexicon.org) as much as I could. Oh, and if you're curious, please see the second note at the end. :)

 

 

  
_“If you could sweep up the pieces and watch them swirl,  
You could even find love in the arms of someone else’s girl.”_  
\- Azure Ray’s “Beautiful Things Could Come From The Dark”

 

 

Hogsmeade at Christmas time was a fairly festive place. Enchanted candles flickered here and there along the streets and carolers gathered upon various doorsteps, shouting out holiday mirth with an enthusiasm that couldn’t be anything other than catching no matter how hard the listener tried to remain removed and, well, grouchy. Visible through the shop windows, Christmas trees were being put up, charmed garland winding itself around the branches while spelled ornaments twinkled cheerfully. Everlasting icicles winked from doorways and from the edges of the roofs.

 

Through all of the holiday splendor, Draco Malfoy plodded his solitary way down the cobblestones, fighting the urge to whistle and wasting all sorts of energy on maintaining his scowl. It was hardly his fault; Christmas was by far his favourite holiday. Besides the joy inherent with receiving gifts, there was just something so _whimsical_ about the whole thing. Being somewhat spoiled (oh fine, being _very_ spoiled), there was absolutely nothing about Christmas that wasn’t enjoyable.

 

Except for the fact that this Christmas was falling short. Excepting also the pounding headache he had, caused no doubt by the mass amounts of angst he was feeling over Hermione’s letter and his dread over what would come next. What would be expected of him. And, almost as importantly, what _wouldn’t_ be.

 

Trying not to dwell on any of that, Draco let himself into Dervish and Banges with a sole purpose in mind. He had decided to participate in the last Hogsmeade trip before the trains left later on in the afternoon because the gifts that one received were always better and generally more expensive if one gave something _back_. Luckily for the more selfish side of him, he only was shopping for Pansy and his mother. There was that to be said about having no friends and a father on the run, of course. More money left over for him and all of the sweets he was planning on buying later.

 

Although Dervish and Banges specialized more or less in magical items, he had heard it through the grapevine that they had gotten in an assortment of jewelry for the holiday season. Pansy and his mother were both women and therefore it stood to reason that they would love anything he stumbled across with very little effort required on his part. Making his way to the glass encased counter at the back, he leaned his elbows on the edges and peered in.

 

The first thing he saw was a pendant announcing the wearer’s role as the world’s number one mum. He chortled at that, pondering whether or not to buy it out of the fact that it was just so _funny_. “Dear Mummy,” his card could say, “I love you more than I love the Cruciatus Curse. That says something doesn’t it?”

 

Or not.

 

There were bracelets too, some simple and some jewel encrusted. Impartially speaking, the jewel encrusted ones were much more breathtaking- there was one with emeralds winking up at him that would look absolutely smashing on Pansy- but well. Giving wasn’t exactly worth it if his own presents wouldn’t amount to the same thing in the end. Wasn’t he a selfish git! Oh, yes he was, thanks ever so.

 

In the end, he decided on a plain gold bracelet for Pansy and a delicate chain for his mother. Women. Fickle to the end! He knew they’d love him for his gifts. After all, surely Seamus couldn’t afford anything quite so nice. He wondered briefly what a halfblooded Irish prat got for his pureblood snot of a socialite; then he decided that he didn’t care. After all, _he_ wasn’t buying anything for anyone outside of his social sphere.

 

Giving into his prior urge to whistle as a saleslady he had never seen before packaged up his things, Draco rocked on his heels and decided to peruse the shop just for the hell of it. Perhaps he could find a Christmas present for himself. Ahh, the only gift worth giving…

 

It was entirely unfortunate that the wares of Dervish and Banges were not as interesting as those at Borgin and Burkes. That shop had all manners of things sinister and intriguing. Dervish and Banges was tediously tame in comparison. Thinking of the opal necklace he’d purchased last year in relationship to the pretty emerald bracelet he’d considered for Pansy, Draco ducked out of sight of the saleslady and began to make his way up and down the aisles.

 

Fiddling with a lunascope he had stumbled across, Draco realized abruptly that he was bored shitless. Normally his Hogsmeade trips involved company. He wondered where Pansy was; sourly he wondered if Zabini was with her. Against his better wishes, he pondered whether or not Hermione had come and if she had arrived with Ginny and an Auror. Wondered if he was to come across her if she could be persuaded into accompanying him… somewhere. You know, just for his own amusement. Not because he _wanted_ her company or because he was curious about what she had in mind for pretending that none of their problems existed. Not because of that at all.

 

It was at that precise moment that he spotted it, shoved back far on the shelf partially hidden by the lunascope. He started upon seeing it as he was not aware that Dervish and Banges sold anything quite so interesting. Perhaps it was because he had just been thinking about Granger. Perhaps it was because her problems were inadvertently always on his mind. He quite honestly had not been thinking of gifting her with anything before that but was it such a bad idea? Guilt and disgust over the letter she had received had been gnawing at him for days. Perhaps something good could level out the bad or, at the very least, perhaps he could convince himself of that.

 

Carefully, he reached deep into the shelf and, when his hands made contact with cold stone, withdrew the pensieve for a more careful inspection. It was smaller than the few he had seen in his time, sitting almost comfortably in his palms. Contemplatively, he traced a finger along the runes and symbols carved into the edge. He wondered briefly if Granger would know how to make the thing work but, in spite of himself, he felt more than confident in her ability to learn how to do it.

 

Then he wondered if he could trick her into revealing her attacker in it.

 

The idea came out of nowhere and shocked him so thoroughly that he almost dropped the stupid thing. Only a quick little jig kept it firmly in his grasp. For a moment, he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. Here he had found something that he had intended to use for _good_ , for the dumping of happy memories that might be able to cheer her up for Christmas, and he was so low and awful that he couldn’t even do that properly. Was he beyond wishing someone well? Was he so tainted that he would use a Christmas present for his own selfish goals? He remembered Pansy asking him if he cared for Granger at all. Did he dislike her _so_ much that he would actually go about manipulating her into revealing the one thing he did not know? The only thing that was truly no business of his?

 

That line of thought made it tempting to put the pensieve back. Merlin knew it was more expensive than both Pansy and his mother’s gifts put together. However, it was also that line of thought that made him turn decisively towards the till. If he doubted himself, he could _prove_ once and for all that he had done one nice thing for her without hugely raging ulterior motives. Just so they’d both have something positive to think about when the shit hit the fan; when this was all over. Assuming Granger made it out alive. Assuming he didn’t snap before then. Assuming all kinds of things.

 

Dumping it on the till near the register, he caught the eye of the lady with his things and said, “This as well, please.”

 

**

 

Draco managed to track down Pansy an hour before the train left, skirting as close to the Slytherin dorms as he dared. From what he could tell from his vantage point of not quite deep in the dungeons, pandemonium was clearly the order of the day. First years were running up and down the stairs, packing and chatting and generally being disorganized. A few that were not going home could be seen here and there with expressions of massive self-pity clouding their faces.

 

When Pansy came up the stairs, her expression was nearly identical even though she _was_ going home. Upon sighting Draco, she made a game attempt at smiling before catching onto his arm and tugging him even further out of sight. He let her lead, following her down once familiar corridors until they came to a dead end far enough away from everyone else that he could only hear the chaos as a mere murmur.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he offered up lamely once they stopped walking.

 

Pansy grimaced. “Can’t see what’s so merry about it. Everyone is going absolutely mad down there. You know how it is. I’ve such a headache. I can’t figure out how to get Seamus his gift. I’m going to have to owl it, I suppose, although Mother will most likely murder me on sight if she catches me doing that. I’ll have to tell her it’s for Zabini or maybe for you. Oh! I gave yours to McGonagall so don’t go being all sour thinking I didn’t get you one. It’ll appear under the tree with the rest of them.”

 

Draco brightened a little at the mention of his present. Reaching into his robes, he withdrew the tiny box for her. “Good to know I haven’t been forgotten. Here’s yours.” A pause during which he surveyed Pansy’s strangely frazzled appearance. “What’s the matter with you?”

 

Initially, Pansy was evasive. He swore he could literally _see_ the wheels turning in her head, various pros and cons of telling the truth whizzing behind her downcast eyelids.

 

“I don’t want to go home,” she admitted at last, “It’s hard enough to see Seamus here but at least I can get a glimpse of him now and then. I don’t want to listen to Mother blathering on about snaring Zabini. I’m not interested in whatever meetings Father’s gone to as of late. And I’m worried about _you_. Who will talk to you when I’m not here? I know I can only manage it occasionally but I always feel better knowing-”

 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, more waspishly than he had meant to. It irritated him some to think of himself as Pansy’s charity case; as her pity friend. He knew that wasn’t how she meant for it to sound and moreover he _knew_ that that wasn’t even the case. Still, it didn’t sit well and surely drove out what he said next. “Granger’s staying anyway. _She_ talks to me.”

 

Pansy’s eyes widened in alarm. Pocketing her present, she moved closer to him and grabbed hold of both of his hands. Immediately he tried to pull back from her grasp but she held firm, nearly crushing his fingers with her own.

 

“You’re _not_ still doing that,” she hissed, “We talked about it. We agreed that you’d call off whatever it is you’re doing and somehow alert Potter. I thought we decided-”

 

“ _We_ didn’t decide anything,” he whispered right back, “Besides, what if I want to spend a happy Christmas with her? What if this has nothing to do with anything?”

 

Pansy scowled at him. “Oh, sod off, Draco. I know you. You’re the most conniving person I’ve ever met. You’re always planning something. If you’re actually looking forward to spending time with Granger, then something is up. You just can’t go from spouting crap about destroying all Mudbloods to suddenly becoming her best friend. Something else is going on.”

 

Something else _was_ going on. Feeling world weary, he wished he could tell Pansy how appealing Granger had been as she offered a holiday’s long olive branch. _Perhaps we can pretend_ and that was what he wanted. If everyone else got a break, he didn’t see why he couldn’t. Even Zabini was going home for the hols. And Granger wasn’t terrible company. She could be alarmingly endearing, as it turned out. As disturbing as it was, he genuinely liked spending time with her- or fancied he would if they ever had anything to talk about besides death and destruction. But he could relay none of that to Pansy.

 

Pinning her down with a positively Slytherin smirk, he asked, “Do you not trust me?”

 

She scoffed and tugged on his hands imploringly. It took her so long to answer that he began to feel antsy. Pansy had _always_ trusted him. He hadn’t flung the idea out there to get a negative response, after all.

 

“I trust you,” she said, much to his relief. Then, being a somewhat evil girl herself, she snatched it all back with what she said next. “Or at least I _want_ to. Can you see the difference? I don’t trust that you’ll do what’s right simply because you don’t do anything for yourself, Draco. You never have. Someone is always instructing you. Your father, You-Know-Who… I don’t know anymore if that’s what you want and I don’t think you do either. You just get so _consumed_ by it.”

 

“I do not.”

 

Indignant by the suggestion that he was the Dark Lord’s bitch. Angry because it was true in a sense, everything that she had laid out for him. For one split second, he _hated_ her for it. Hated her lofty smile and the self-righteous wisdom she seemed to think she had acquired simply by shunning her horrible mother and shagging someone utterly beneath her. He was riled by her tone and by the suggestion that _she_ was above him because of it.

 

But Pansy was not frightened by him. If she saw the hurt and the anger her words had caused, she merely ignored it. Dropping his hands, she stepped closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

 

“Happy Christmas, Draco. Be careful. Crabbe and Goyle are staying behind. You know they’re in with Zabini now.” Turned, as if to leave. “And, Draco? Be careful with Granger too. Try not to be so horrid. Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

 

**

 

In the end, “getting out of here” involved a boring day spent by himself. He had been hoping despite himself that Granger would find him but, by supper time, she had not made any effort whatsoever. He had seen her from a distance rounding up students for the trains and, even now in the Great Hall, she was sitting with the first years left behind, pointing out various things of interest and generally being purposely cheery. The Head Girl in all of her glory.

 

As for himself, his excitement over the holidays had faded drastically. The fairy lights flickering over the tables were beginning to hurt his eyes and the wood nymphs singing happy little songs to accompany dinner had long ago become grating. It was by far the most irritating tradition ever borrowed from Beauxbatons.

 

Furthermore, he couldn’t help but notice the suspicious glances McGonagall kept sending him from the Head Table. He wondered what she was wondering, if his mother really did give her information, but the Head Mistress was too skilled for her looks to be easily read.

 

Sighing, he glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, seated a respectable distance away from him. He had half hoped that without Zabini’s presence they might migrate towards him again. Merlin knew they were too dumb to entertain themselves. He was even willing to forgive them their welcome back to Hogwarts beating, despite any warnings Pansy might have given him.

 

Even the thought of all of his impending presents wasn’t lifting his spirits overly much. That realization made him question his general health and sanity; then he had been considering both a lot as of late.

 

All in all, Granger’s idea of forgetting seemed to involve forgetting him as well and, if things didn’t pick up, he was going to start regretting missing out on an awkward Christmas at home.

 

**

 

Luckily for him, Granger _hadn’t_ forgotten him. She let herself into his rooms at a disgraceful hour the next morning, dressed snug as a bug in her winter robes and clearly intent on doing something. Luckily for her, Draco had spent much of his time after dinner napping and, as a result, had risen earlier than normal. He too was dressed and ready to go, even though until that moment he hadn’t seriously thought about going anywhere and had, in fact, been dreading the hours until it was bedtime again.

 

“Oh, look who it is,” he said by way of greeting. Forced himself not to add anything pouty and silly about how horrid his holidays were going, even as the strange dependence he seemed to have developed on her for a good time made him skittish. After all, he had no evidence to suggest that Granger was even remotely fun.

 

Then again, taking his NEWTs promised to be more fun than sitting by himself in his rooms all day.

 

“You look surprised to see me,” she observed, coming to sit beside him on the couch, “I thought we were going to attempt to have a good time over the break. You know, _pretending_.”

 

Draco slapped his thighs and leaned in her direction, antsy and eager to start up with this business of carrying on like they were friends and things were normal. “So, how do we go about that? Do we stay here? Do we leave?”

 

Now Hermione was surprised. For a moment, she looked owlish but then she smiled, a genuinely warm thing sent in his direction. He cleared his throat and tried not to look at her.

 

“You want to leave? Aren’t you afraid someone might see me with you?”

 

“Why?” he asked, exasperated, “I wasn’t aware that spending time with me was illegal. I don’t know why everyone thinks that. You should be the one who’s worried.”

 

And besides. If anyone saw them from his side, they’d just assume he was doing his job. It seemed like a win win situation, really.

 

“Everyone thinks that because you’re positively _nasty_. As for me, it’s my responsibility as Head Girl to make sure that everyone is happy and looked after. Everyone will think I’m doing my job.”

 

Aww, wasn’t it cute how their ulterior motives were so very in line? Draco resisted the urge to snort.

 

“Do we leave then? I’m feeling absolutely stir crazy. I don’t mind admitting that. You came so bloody early at least we’ll be back well before curfew.”

 

While Hermione hemmed and hawed over that, Draco began to warm to his idea. Leaving would be just the thing. They could go to Hogsmeade and have those butterbeers. Perhaps she had some last minute shopping, although he doubted she was unorganized enough for that. Beginning to fear that her answer would be no, he turned to her and tried out his best imploring smile.

 

“You owe me a butterbeer. It’ll be fine.”

 

“I can’t just _leave_ ,” she protested, “I’d have to tell-”

 

“Pish posh. Get one of your stupid Aurors to follow us. No one can say anything anyway if it’s chaperoned. Oh! I know! We can _fly_ there! I haven’t really flown anywhere is so long. That’ll be fun, won’t it? It’s not too cold out and-”

 

“No, no, no!” Hermione protested, shrinking away from him and the very idea, “I’m not flying. I don’t even have a broom.”

 

“So? We can use mine.”

 

Yes, that was exactly the thing if Hermione would only stop looking so frightened and desperate. It was alarming how rapidly he was cheering up and, for the purpose of forgetting, he concentrated hard on putting it from his mind. It wasn’t like _Granger_ was making him happy. It was the idea of flying; the idea of leaving. It was the idea of all sorts of things, none of which involved her.

 

“You don’t understand,” she was saying in her best patronizing tone, “I _don’t_ fly.”

 

The idea was absurd. Thinking about it, he realized that at least it was the truth. He couldn’t ever remember her on a broomstick. That, however, didn’t make it any less strange.

 

“Why ever not?”

 

She looked uncomfortable with the question. Fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, she looked anywhere but at him.

 

“I’m afraid of heights,” was her lame answer.

 

Draco practically laughed. “You are not.”

 

“Yes, I am! You don’t know me. I don’t like them at all. Just because I’m Harry Potter’s mate doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of anything.”

 

“Heights isn’t it, though. Is it?”

 

“It’s partly it. It's it enough as far as you're concerned.”

 

Standing up, he smiled down at her. “No time like the present to get over it then, is there? Go tell the blasted Auror or McGonagall or whoever and I’ll get my broom. Meet you outside. Then you can tell me the _real_ reason behind all of this.”

 

**

 

By the time Draco collected his broom and walked to the gates, his mood had risen significantly. It was only that he adored flying of course. Swapping his broom between each hand, he began to make whizzing noises under his breath; looked way up to check out the conditions of the sky.

 

He was still making embarrassing flying noises when Hermione arrived, the same Auror from the other day trailing behind her at a respectable distance only this time with the addition of his own broom. She marched right up to him, nose red and arms crossed, and fixed him with a truly admirable glare.

 

“I’ve had some time to think about it and I think we should walk.”

 

“Do you?” he smirked, “I’m not walking. What do you expect me to do, fly along beside you?”

 

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t care. If that’ll make you happy then yes. We’ll _both_ be happy. I’m not getting on your broom. That’s not even a _regular_ broom. It’s a… well, it looks very fast, doesn’t it?”

 

Draco spun it around proudly before offering it over for her inspection. She took it gingerly, clearly not knowing the first thing about them. Looking extremely put out, she ran her mittened hand up and down the handle.

 

“It’s a Firebolt,” he announced with a great deal of gusto, “Mother bought it for me when I… came back. Couldn’t have Potter on a faster broom, now could we? Of course, that was before Potter didn’t come back and I got kicked off the team but it’s still something to look at.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Oh, show _some_ excitement! I know you’ve been around _his_ broom and mine’s got to be in better shape. It’s newer. It’s really something.”

 

She handed it back. “Of course it is, Draco.”

 

“Well, it is,” he replied lamely, “Now, get on.”

 

“What? No!”

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose with his spare hand, he let out a world weary sigh. “We both know you’re going to get on eventually, Granger. Can’t we just skip all of the bickering and get started?”

 

She huffed. “What makes you think that? I don’t even fly with Harry and Ron. What makes you think I’ll fly with you?”

 

“That’s simple. I don’t like you. They wouldn’t judge you if you didn’t do it. I will. I know you _hate_ me being better than you at things. You’ll want to show me up. So. I don't think you'll do it. Prove me wrong.”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him but it was clear he had her at that. Jutting her chin out, she snatched his broom from his hand and glared away his protests of her mistreatment of his most prized possession. Having actually read a thing or two about Firebolts in spite of what Draco thought, she held it at what she figured was mounting height, thought dreadfully hard about doing just that, and released the broom. It landed rather unceremoniously in the snow at her feet. Trying to ignore the criticizing snicker from his direction, she pulled it out of the snow and tried it again. And again.

 

On her fourth try, Draco clearly had had enough.

 

“You’re dreadful at this, Granger,” he said somewhat gleefully. She avoided looking at him when she shoved the broom back. “You’ve got to _want_ to get on it or otherwise it’ll just ignore you.”

 

Which was fine by her, of course.

 

Still smirking, he stepped right into her line of vision, lifted his broom, and released it. She was annoyed but not surprised to see it do exactly what it was supposed to. Continuing to ignore his patronizing smile, she pushed past him, grabbed onto the handle warily, and swung her leg over. The second she was properly seated and her toes were no longer buried in snow, panic welled up inside of her. Closing her eyes, she gripped the handle hard and prayed to Merlin that Draco Malfoy would just drop dead.

 

No such luck. She heard the snow crunching underneath his feet and then his weight was tipping the broom as he settled down in front of her. Clenching the handle harder did not quench the fear in the pit of her stomach. More or less, her awkward and panicked leaning threatened to pitch her right off of the side. Cracking open one eye, she was comforted by the fact that they were not more than two or three feet from the ground. And Robert, the Auror she was rapidly growing fond of, wouldn’t let the evilly persuasive ferret do anything really terrible to her.

 

“No spinning,” she ordered, “and no flipping. No sharp turns and no fancy little Quidditch moves you’ve just been _dying_ to try. If you do anything funny, Malfoy, I swear I’ll hex you.”

 

“You’d have to let go of the handle to do that,” he observed wryly. Then, sighing, “Oh _fine_. I shan’t do a single _fun_ thing the whole way in. On my honour as a Malfoy.”

 

“Isn’t that reassuring. Oh, Merlin, I hate this.”

 

He shot a smile over his shoulder and waited for her to ease up her position. And waited. At long last, Hermione opened her eyes fully and caught his gaze.

 

“Why are you staring at me? Can’t we just get this over with?”

 

She sounded so panicked that he tried to soften his gaze.

 

“You’ll have to move your hands, Hermione. I can’t sit properly without sitting on them. That aside, look at the angle you’re at!”

 

Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that that much was true. Draco _was_ positioned much too far forward. She loosened her grasp on a deep breath.

 

“But what can I hold on to? This is nothing but a harebrained scheme. In fact, I’m getting off of this broom immediately. I don’t care if you have to hover at this height the whole way in to keep me company. I’ve had enough and-”

 

Awkwardly reaching behind himself, he found her arms, dislodged her grip with one uncomfortably hard tug, and drew her hands around his sides. Squeaking at losing her hold on the broom, she grabbed onto him so hard that he felt it painfully in his ribs. Carefully, he took hold of her wrists and guided her hands lower, away from bones and anything breakable.

 

“There. Isn’t that better?” he asked, squirming backwards to better lean over the handle, “You don’t have a bloody thing to worry about, Hermione. I’m very good at flying.”

 

She nodded and squeezed him harder, pushing her face between his shoulder blades to avoid looking at the ground as he pointed the broom upwards and guided them off. As for Draco, he tried to concentrate very hard on the actual act of flying and not at all on the warm girl snuggled against his back. If he was to concentrate on that, he would surely notice everything about her: how soft she felt, how much her hair tickled where it rubbed against the back of his neck, how clean and soapy she smelled; _everything_. As it was, their legs were touching, Muggle denim against his black slacks, and her hands were pressed into his stomach. Their collective cloaks were tangled and bunched between them. She was everywhere. He couldn’t think of a single way to avoid touching her and, better yet, the whole situation was his own fault. Resolutely, he stared at the frosty landscapes passing by beneath them.

 

This reminded him of her original claim and presently he asked, “Are you actually afraid of heights?”

 

He felt her nod against his back. “Yes. I can’t believe you have me up here. You’re an absolute bugger, Malfoy. Also I’m just not very good at it. I’ll give you that. _You’re_ actually better than me at this.”

 

“Well, no surprises there.” Reassuringly, he let go of the broom with one hand and gave her mitten a squeeze. “I _was_ the best seeker Slytherin ever had-”

 

“So you like to say.”

 

“-although I am a bit rusty. It’s a shame though that you won’t look. It’s really quite lovely up here. I’m sure even your Auror friend back there is enjoying the view. His broom isn’t nearly as nice as mine, is it?”

 

“No,” she said without looking, just to shut him up, “No one’s broom is as nice as yours, Malfoy.”

 

He got that she was patronizing him and was surprised to find himself holding back a laugh. Abruptly he was so happy to have company that he couldn’t resist giving her hand another squeeze.

 

“Why, Granger, I didn’t know you felt that way about my… broom,” he teased, smiling lightly.

 

“Honestly, Draco.” Scientific sounding all of a sudden. “If you ask me about your broom in comparison to one more person’s, I’m going to think you have penis envy. I’m sure yours is just fine. You’re such a wanker anyway that I know-”

 

“That’s it, Granger.” Couldn’t _help_ himself. Cracks at his manhood aside, he was strangely enjoying himself. “Talk dirty to me. I _am_ a wanker. Tell me about cold winter nights in the Gryffindor dorms, why don’t you? Give me some new material. I’ve _heard_ such delightful things. Do you fancy Lavender? You can tell me. Girl's got absolutely amazing-”

 

“Merlin, Draco, if I wasn’t afraid of falling off of this blasted thing if I let go of you, I’d give you the pounding of your life.”

 

A pause during which Draco chewed on the inside of his cheeks to hold it all in. It was Hermione who snorted out a giggle in the end, muffled by his cloak.

 

“Alright. That last one sounded bad,” she admitted somewhat begrudgingly.

 

“They all sounded bad.”

 

Although he could not see her, she batted her eyelashes coquettishly and adopted her best pureblooded prat voice. “‘Oh, _Hermione_. Couldn’t possibly let Harry have a faster broom than me.’”

 

“Granger? That you in there? What happened to the dried up old prude we all love to hate?”

 

But she was not done. “'Tell me, whose is better? You’ve been around _his_ broom and _mine_ is in better shape.’ You think about Harry's broom too much, Draco. Is there something you're not telling me? Perhaps that's why you never shagged Pansy.”

 

She laughed so hard at herself then that she almost forgot how high up they were and just who she was teasing. Draco puzzled over the sound of it, a rich full out laugh directed at his own stupid wording, and wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. Unconsciously, he leaned back into her. She gave him a resounding slap on the stomach as she began to wind down.

 

“Hermione?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do shut up or I’ll be forced to renege on my word. I feel the urge to spin coming on.”

 

“What? You can dish out the homoerotic jokes but you can’t take them? Bit prudish of you, Draco.”

 

“Oh, I can take them,” he grumbled, cringing despite himself.

 

“Draco?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do shut up and fly. I’d like to get to Hogsmeade before the new year, if you please.”

 

**

 

Granted, once they arrived in Hogsmeade, things got awkward and fast. Leaving his broom in the capable hands of Hermione’s shadow, Draco tried to figure out just why that was. Perhaps it was that sharing a drink together at The Hog’s Head was more intimate and uncomfortable in reality than it had been in his head. Perhaps it was the Auror- Robert, Hermione had said his name was- hovering a few tables over, surreptitiously eyeing up the clientele and clearly eavesdropping, lest the Malfoy heir decided to reveal his true colours. Perhaps it was because it was hard to _forget_.

 

Hermione was glancing around herself as well, nose wrinkled slightly at the clientele. Draco watched her with mounting amusement as she peered at the crusty old man behind the bar.

 

“Perhaps we should have gone to The Three Broomsticks-”

 

“Don’t want to see Madam Rosmerta just now.”

 

“-or Madam Puddifoot’s.” A pause. “But, no. I wouldn’t want people thinking we were, y’know, _together_.”

 

He rolled his eyes at that and pushed up and away from the table. “Butterbeer still?”

 

“Please.” Reaching into her pocket, she offered him up the appropriate amount of sickles.

 

Draco smirked at the sight of her change and waved her off as he moved away.

 

“I think I can afford four sickles, Granger. The world may be off kilter if we’re here in each other’s company on purpose but two butterbeers still won’t break the family vault.”

 

When he returned a few moments later, two chilled bottles in his hands, Granger had clearly picked up on his earlier uncomfortable vibe. She sipped her drink quietly, rubbing a scar in the worn table top with her fingernail.

 

For the life of him, Draco suddenly could not think of anything to say to her. He watched her silently for awhile, trying to think of why she was _actually_ willing to spend time with him and continuously coming up short. Then, once that got tiresome, he reclined back in his chair and surveyed the clientele more closely.

 

It was with considerable surprise that he noted Crabbe and Goyle, situated together in the far corner. He wasn’t sure _why_ he was shocked exactly- after all, they had just as much right to be there as he and his brooding companion did- but it spiraled through him all the same. They were not even looking at him, or at least not at that moment, but for whatever reason the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He recalled the pain of their fists in his side and winced. “They’re in with Zabini now” was what Pansy had said. Cautiously, he took a sip from his bottle and attempted to make eye contact with either one of them.

 

It was only when they wouldn’t even so much as glance in his direction that Draco’s fears were confirmed. Someone more artful at spying might have attempted to appear more casual, more in sync with the crowd. Crabbe and Goyle were both perfectly silent and were so obviously more than aware of Draco’s presence with Hermione that all of his instincts were crying out for fight or flight. Obviously Zabini had them spying on him. At least, he _hoped_ it was Zabini. Zabini he could handle.

 

All the same, Draco nudged Granger’s leg underneath the table and subtly nodded in their direction.

 

“Do you want to go and buy some sweets?” he asked, “Something to eat while waiting for midnight tomorrow? This butterbeer isn’t as good as I was hoping.”

 

Hermione followed his furtive glance and did not let him down by how quickly she figured out his intent.

 

“Are they here because of you?” she whispered, turning her face into her palm as she spoke so that his old friends couldn’t read her lips. Not that they would be able to anyway. It was almost an insult to be tailed by such dunderheads. “Are they watching you? With _me_? Why?”

 

Oh yes, _why_. There were too many reasons to list and none that he was willing to. Shrugging off her question, he flicked a few more sickles onto their table and got the Auror’s- _Robert’s_ \- eye. Beckoning at the door, he waited for Hermione to dawn her cloak and then followed out close behind her.

 

He wouldn’t think of it now, he decided. It was absolutely maddening was what it was but he just simply wouldn’t go there until after Christmas. Then, in the few blissful days before everyone returned to school, he’d get them alone and curse the bleeding shit out of them until they cried for their mothers and _begged_ to tell him everything they knew. He was not afraid of Crabbe and Goyle. For all he cared, they could confront him right now. Liked the odds, really. He, Granger, and _Robert_ against those two? He snickered at the thought.

 

“I can’t see how this is so funny,” Hermione snapped, stepping out onto the walkway, “We’ll just tell Ro-”

 

“Oh no, we won’t. We’re _forgetting_.”

 

She rolled her eyes at that, quickening her pace enough that he had to jog to catch up with her.

 

“We’re not forgetting when it’s stupid to do so,” she said when he caught up with her, “Why would they be following you? _Are_ they following you or is it me? What’s going on?”

 

Draco did not think about it. Her questions were making him squirm and for all of the wrong reasons too. Her concern made him feel like shit; he couldn’t remember the last time anybody had ever worried after him just for his own sake. Hermione Granger was something else, everything he had ever heard that she was and more. Quickly, before he could think about it, he reached forward and brushed the tips of her fingers with his. Just to reassure her.

 

She started at the contact and stopped walking. Feeling a bit panicked, he continued his random perusal of her hand, thinking all the while _what the fuck_? His heart was hammering and he was so nervous he felt like fleeing. As for Granger, he couldn’t tell whether or not she was going to slap him or just continue to stand there. She had gone perfectly still. His Muggle Studies teacher had used the term “like a deer in the headlights” and, after explaining the term enough times to the class that even a two year could have gotten it, Draco was quite certain he grasped the concept enough to use it in reference to Hermione just then.

 

But then what was he doing? Punching self-consciously at her palm with his thumb, he tried to make himself stop. Rethought every evil foul thing that had ever crossed his mind in relation to her just to make it _end_. He felt frozen in time himself, but not in a nice maudlin romance book type of way. His stomach was dropping and her eyes were wide and-

 

The letter that had been his fault. That did it. Dropping her hand, he shoved his into the pocket of his cloak and all but raced past her, guilt and anger with himself quickening his step.

 

“Well, hurry along, Granger. They’re going to sell out of sweets before we get there.”

 

Hermione said nothing back but she caught up to him quickly enough. Behind them, Robert followed along, cursing the arrogant git who had stuck him with his broom as though he had nothing better to do than act the part of house elf. If any of them would have turned, they would have seen two more young men exit The Hog’s Head, eyes narrowed and mouths turned downwards in response to their once friend’s forbidden touching of the Mudblood.

 

**

 

Several hours, one fretful broom ride, and a ditched Auror later, Hermione Granger was standing in his living room, manfully attempting to hide a yawn. They had missed supper but then they were so filled up on sweets that Draco didn’t think he’d ever be hungry again. Cavity ridden perhaps but not hungry.

 

“Do you want company awhile longer?” asked Granger, toying with the tie on her cloak.

 

Draco took in her tired eyes and shrugged. “Up to you. You look positively knackered.”

 

“Not tired,” she protested, one more yawn smothered by her hand, “and I don’t think I’ll ever sleep after all of that candy.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Draco hung up his cloak on the coat rack and looked longingly in the direction of his bathroom.

 

“Don’t mind the company, Granger,” he admitted, “You can stay if you want. Do you mind if I clean up, though?”

 

“Go right ahead.”

 

He waited politely until she was seated on the couch, his Potions textbook in her hands, before heading off to his shower. Once he was underneath the scalding hot water, he was not exactly surprised to find that his mind was absolutely on fire. He could still feel her hand on his fingertips and the ramifications, not to mention the reasons _why_ he might have wanted it, behind his act were fairly dizzying.

 

He had touched her, willingly. True, he hadn’t thought of it prior to actually doing it but there it was. A done deal, so to speak. He was not so blind as to realize that what he had just done had been a massive blunder on his part. A weakness. He had been ordered to _spy_ on her, not to get all cozy and practically hand holding with the girl. It had been simple. It had been easy.

 

It was positively _unsettling_. Guilt over everything he’d done and everything he would still have to do made him feel so unclean and horrible that he scrubbed himself hard enough with the soap to turn his skin red. He felt absolutely beside himself with disbelief. What sort of person was he that he could honestly consider betraying her confidences one moment and want actual physical _contact_ with her the next? Obviously he was off his rocker. Obviously he was in over his head.

 

Perhaps the whole thing was better off in Zabini’s hands. Perhaps Pansy was right. Maybe Draco couldn’t do this. Maybe he _did_ need to find a way to involve Potter.

 

His father’s disapproving face flashed behind his unseeing eyes and he nearly gagged at the thought of the disappointment that would cause. Lucius Malfoy would see him disowned, if not worse. Lucius Malfoy would never have been stupid enough to consider a few days of _pretending_ to enjoy time spent with the enemy.

 

But wasn’t the time he was spending with the enemy Draco’s father’s own fault? Hadn’t he been _ordered_ to get close enough to her that she would share things with him? Wasn’t this what everyone _wanted_?

 

Why then was Draco insisting on blurring the line? He was too close with Granger, that was the problem. No one, himself included, had considered the fact that his isolated semester would make him so lonely and desperate for friendly contact that he wouldn’t be able to toe the line for very long. No one had treated him as well as Granger, not even Pansy with her stolen visits and fussy worry. Why couldn’t anyone see that it was hard to act all buddy buddy with her without _accidentally_ bringing on just that? Clearly everyone thought him made of stone.

 

But then Granger was beneath him. No one should have had to of considered the possibility that he might forget that simply because he _shouldn’t_ have forgotten that himself. And he wouldn't have. Normally.

 

Banging his head against the tiles, Draco groped around for the faucet and cut off the flow of water. He rigorously toweled himself off, mentally trying to freeze himself against what was sure to be a chummy visit as soon as he left the bathroom. Couldn’t anyone see how _awful_ this all was?

 

Only that this was war, wasn’t it? He was either with her or against her. There wasn't any room for greys.

 

Sighing, he made quick work of climbing into sweatpants and his t-shirt. He’d simply go out into the living room and dismiss her. Clearly he couldn’t handle anymore of her company, acting as barmy as he was.

 

As soon as he entered the living room, he was alerted to a persistent tapping against his window pane. It was a sound he knew instantly. Shooting a panicked look in Granger’s direction, Draco was immensely relieved to see that she had passed out on the couch, his textbook cradled on her lap. As quietly as he could, he made his way to the window and pulled it open.

 

An ominously _normal_ owl awaited him, message attached unceremoniously to his leg. Draco did not want to grab it. Not now. Not in this strange mood. But then what choice did he have? What choice had he ever had?

 

_I don’t trust that you’ll do what’s right simply because you don’t do anything for yourself, Draco. You never have._

 

Fuck you too, Pansy. Resolute now, he tugged the message off of the owl and held it clenched in his hands. When the bird didn’t immediately fly away, he shooed it as quietly as he could off of his sill and closed the window up tight.

 

Draco did not have to open the message to know what it said. He’d already remembered that Lucius Malfoy didn’t take breaks. He already knew his father was stronger than he ever could be.

 

“I have not heard from you in a week,” it would say, “I have left you x amount of letters in the cranny of the tree and not one response from you. You cannot shirk this, boy. Is it your death you want? Do you want to besmirch your family’s name even farther? What news of the Mudblood? I trust you not to disappoint.” Sarcasm. He could open it and read nothing but disgust from his father.

 

Swallowing, he pulled the letter close to his side and glanced again at Granger.

 

And there it was.

 

The realization did not come to him in any huge mind blowing manner. Choirs of angels did not sing sweetly in the background as Draco Malfoy realized what everyone else already knew of Hermione.

 

Rather he looked at her and knew that she must have been absolutely weary to fall asleep on his couch like that. He looked at her and saw that the worry lines disappeared from her forehead in sleep but that her lips were still pushed hard together and drawn downwards in a stress so overwhelming that nothing could relieve her of it. Her hands were resting on his book and for the first time ever her studiousness did not annoy him.

 

But that was neither here nor there, what she looked like; how she slept. What did matter was that for the first time, Draco Malfoy looked at her and did not see a golden Gryffindor or the best mate of Harry Potter. He did not see the Hogwarts Head Girl with her perfect grades and irritating crusades for goodness. Draco Malfoy looked at her and saw all at once a tired, scared girl who had been hoisted into a situation beyond her control; who had been violated over and over again but had not been broken. He saw someone who did not deserve anything that had happened to her or would happen to her. He saw her and thought _enough is enough_.

 

He hated that he found her in the forest. He hated that he felt so much sympathy for her in this one moment. He hated that he’d helped that stress along. He hated that he did not hate _her_.

 

Draco Malfoy was fucked. He did not think as he moved to his fireplace; as he bent and shoved the letter back within the grate. He did not think as he touched it with his wand and, with a quiet murmur, watched the unopened letter go up in flames. It was as though he was on automaton.

 

Straightening, he tugged at Hermione until she was stretched out against the cushions. Distantly, he noted that she must have been more than knackered to sleep through that. He fetched her a blanket from his bedroom and then quietly and without further thought retired himself.

 

Enough was enough for that night.

 

**TBC…**

 

**Author’s Note Round Two:** I was going to do this all in a single chapter but here it is, twenty pages long and nowhere near done. If it seems abrupt and not fleshed out enough yet, that's why. I decided to split it because, hey, it’s long enough and I too am tired and don’t feel like typing anymore. ;) I should be able to get the next bit out this weekend so the wait shouldn’t be so unbelievably long that you’ll all be forced to track me down and beat me with Hogwarts: A History.

 

**Next Time** : It really _is_ Christmas at Hogwarts and Draco has a lot on his mind. Draco’s realization is furthered along by some not so pleasant consequences (here’s to you, [](http://sunnyjune46.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunnyjune46**](http://sunnyjune46.livejournal.com/))and he must consider coming clean to Hermione… for both of their sake. Will she be furious with him? And rightly so!  


 

[Previous Parts](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html)


	9. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep. I blame moving. lol. I'm really sorry about the wait.

**Title:** Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
 **Chapter:** Eight  
 **Author:** Edie  
 **Rating:** R (and I mean it. Violence and such)  
 **Story Summary:** He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
 **Chapter Summary:** Crabbe and Goyle have a warning. Draco tells Hermione. 23 pages and 10,492 words.  
 **Author's Note:** Eep. I blame moving. lol. I'm really sorry about the wait.  
 **Disclaimer:** Completely and utterly not my characters.

 

 

  
_"Before opened eyes_  
No one's crying  
Not yet realized  
In the meantime  
I have nothing to say  
I'm here in vain"  
\- Azure Ray's "For No One"

 

 

A crushing weight on his ribcage was what woke Draco Malfoy the next morning. Groggy though he was, a vague interest forced him to crack upon his eyes. Two golden orbs were staring unblinkingly at him, wide open and more alert than he felt. The sight of them gave him a fright and woke him fully enough to realize that both the weight and the eerie eyes belonged to Granger’s beast Crookshanks, who had seemingly taken it upon himself to make Draco’s chest into a bed.

 

“You,” he said, not finding it very difficult to sound irritated, “How did you get in here anyway?”

 

Crookshanks responded to his greeting by darting out a paw and poking at Draco’s lips, all feline curiosity. Clenching his mouth shut, he swallowed a bit of cat hair and roused himself enough to remove the offending animal from his person. Clearly put out, Crookshanks fluffed up his tail and hopped of the bed, making a dignified exit out of the bedroom door that Draco was sure he’d closed upon turning in the night before.

 

It was then that he became aware of noises coming from his living room. Granger was clearly up and about, busy raising all hell if the variety of the sounds meant anything. Grimacing at an ominous scrape, he pushed off the blankets, stood up, and, scratching at his chest, followed the same path her cat had taken.

 

Hermione _was_ up and obviously had been for quite sometime. She was dressed for the day, casually in jeans and a rather old maroon sweater, and had already been for a shower. Curls in various stages of drying stuck out every which way. He noted that she had attempted to do something with her hair, if one considered piling the majority of it on top of her head doing something. He assumed she’d brought the cat back with her.

 

More importantly, Hermione was busy dragging his coat rack away from the door and over to the window.

 

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, smashing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Clearly he needed coffee. Approaching ten thirty or not, it was much too early for this. “I liked that just fine where it was, thanks ever so.”

 

Hermione started at the sound of his voice, letting go of the coat rack so abruptly that it teetered back and forth in front of her. Shooting a glare in his direction, she tried and failed to appear angry. Frown disappearing, she tittered.

 

“My oh my, aren’t you handsome today. Look at that infamous Malfoy hair!”

 

His hands flew defensively to pat at what was an admittedly static ridden mess. Under her smiling gaze, he became increasingly aware of how undignified his old sweatpants were; of the tear at the bottom of his favourite t-shirt. Draco Malfoy believed in looking top notch during the day. Sleeping required comfort. Awkwardly, he tried to position a fist over the hole.

 

Volumes of perfectly good insults came and went. Leaning back against the wall, he said instead, “What are you doing?”

 

Hermione glanced at the coat rack. “Well, when I went back to my room to have a shower, I got to thinking about how you haven’t decorated your room at all. Where do you want your Christmas presents to appear, Draco?”

 

“What does any of this have to do with my coat rack?” He didn’t even want to know.

 

The smile she sent him was positively dazzling. Surely he only thought so because he had not yet awoken fully. Nevertheless, it stupidly enticed him into returning it.

 

Encouraged, she told him, “It’s going to be your tree, of course. My parents sent me some ornaments since I won’t be going home for Christmas this year.” Before her expression could cloud over at that, she gestured at a cardboard box beside his couch. “Thought I could string them off of it.”

 

Oh, how Draco longed to say something snappy to that! Unfortunately for his better intentions, Granger’s idea was just so damned _sweet_ that he couldn’t quite muster up anything to combat it with. Clearing his throat to cover up the awkwardness that he felt over that, he moved to peer into her box.

 

A perfectly uncharmed angel stared up at him from its depths. Her bed had been made on boxes of ornamental balls, equally lacking in magical flare. The garland he could just make out at the bottom clearly wasn’t capable of hanging itself.

 

“These are Muggle ornaments,” he accused stupidly.

 

“My parents _are_ Muggles.” She gave him a strange look. “Well, don’t just stand there. Either help me lug this rack over there or take them out of the box. They don’t _bite_ , Draco.”

 

He wasn’t too sure about that. Glaring at her bossy tone, he left her to the lifting and perched cautiously on his couch. He removed the angel first and stared into her eerily unmoving face. Her expression was serene; her golden curls were arranged just so underneath the halo held up by a thin piece of wire. It was hard to resist the urge to poke at her with his wand.

 

“What does she _do_?”

 

Hermione glanced at him from behind the rack, now almost manipulated into place. “She doesn’t _do_ anything. If we were at my house, we could plug her in and she’d light up but here that obviously won’t work. You don’t _have_ to use them, Draco. I just thought it would be nice is all. If you want your rooms to be all gloomy, it’s entirely up to you.” Her tone left no doubt in his mind as to what _she_ would have done.

 

Thinking that the whole thing was rather sketchy indeed, Draco put the angel down and glanced at Hermione. She looked so odd standing with his coat rack, her lips pursed with perfect indignation, that he almost laughed at her. Instead, what he got was a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that he tried very hard to ignore. Difficult though when it was rising up his throat and was clearly hell bent on choking him. Clearing his throat again, he slumped backwards into his couch and offered up the angel.

 

“Oh, do whatever you like,” was what he said, as nonchalantly as he could make it sound, “If you want to spend all morning putting up Muggle ornaments then it’s up to you. Don’t expect any help though. I simply don’t do that kind of thing.”

 

“Of course not,” Hermione huffed, grabbing the angel from him. Standing on the tips of her toes, she stuck the angel on top of the coat rack. It wobbled a bit before slumping pathetically to one side, but she smiled proudly at it anyway. “We’re going to have a good Christmas, Draco. I don’t care what it takes.”

 

**

 

Unfortunately for Draco, Crabbe and Goyle seemed to have other ideas indeed.

 

He was halfway to McGonagall’s office, Hermione’s present tucked up under his arm, when he became aware of their hulking presence. They appeared to be trying to be sneaky (Draco had _attempted_ to teach them well) but were failing miserably. Their whole problem, as far as he could tell, was that they just weren’t good at blending in. Twice he had caught them lumbering behind him; twice they had frozen beside the walls, faces blank and as still as trees.

 

It was getting to be more than a little annoying. The fact that they were clearly tailing him- that someone thought he was _stupid_ enough not to pick up on that fact- was absolutely grating. Unless someone wanted him to pick up on the fact, which made his two ex-cronies little more than useless and vague warnings of… something. That seemed convoluted even to Draco but he was just paranoid enough to give it a bit of thought as he ducked around the corner, trying in vain to lose them.

 

There was that to be said of them, of course. They might have been stupider than dogs but they were persistent when their tiny minds were put to a task… as long as that task was explained down to painful simplicity. Draco had always maintained that they were too dense to think of any reason as to why they _shouldn’t_ be blindly taking orders but he had never wasted much time pondering it when he was the one doling them out. Now that they were listening to someone else, he had had more than enough.

 

It took only a second or two for them to follow him around the corner, which he used to adjust the unfortunate weight of Hermione’s presence so as to get a good grip on his wand. He had never been much for brawn but he knew he could hex the shit out of them, at the very least. There were other options like a knee to the groin or a well placed bite but that wasn’t at all dignified. Wands made things ever so much better.

 

Crabbe came around first, his arms slightly bent into his belly as he grunted with the exertion of keeping up with Draco. Goyle was not far behind. They both gave a start at seeing their prey standing before them, wand at the ready, and shared a blank gaze before turning mean eyes on Draco.

 

For the love of Merlin.

 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, twirling his wand casually between his fingers, “Another thrashing you’d like to dole out, perhaps? I find myself more amenable to a beating in the corridor but if you’d prefer the loo again… well, I dare you to try and touch me.”

 

His speech more or less bounced right off. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged another look, fists clenched in such a way that was intimidating despite his better wishes. Best to plunge on, however.

 

“Is amenable what’s holding you up?” Wasn’t he the master of false concern! “It means agreeable, you dolts. I know you know what thrashing means. Or do you?” Slowly now. “Would you like to squish me like a bug with your fists? Pummel me? Beat me to a bloody pulp? Must I go on?”

 

Crabbe moved so fast, faster than Draco thought possible for such a large bloke, that he was in his space before Draco could so much as blink. Psychical intimidation was their specialty- Draco knew this- but everything was always different on the other side. It was a shame he was so short and spindly. How he’d like even the slightest physical edge! Surely then his stomach wouldn’t be dropping and he wouldn’t be worrying that his taunting might have given them ideas. A last minute bit of genius made sure that Crabbe’s stomach felt the tip of his wand. Crabbe paid it no heed.

 

“Do your job, Malfoy,” he hissed, leaning in so close that it took every bit of resolve Draco possessed not to back up, “We saw you in Hogsmeade. No need to get friendly with the Mudblood.”

 

“No need to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he shot right back, wondering all the while how Crabbe knew anything at all about a job. Zabini, he reckoned. Bloody wanker. After all, Zabini’s success relied entirely on his own, didn’t it? Hard to steal the glory when there was no glory to steal.

 

Crabbe’s eyes locked with his own and Draco fought the urge to hex him right then and there, in spite of the fact that all of Slytherin would be after him for it, not to mention the detention he would doubtlessly end up serving. It was an odd knee-jerk reaction, one that rose just as quickly as his stomach dropped with a dread so large he was ashamed.

 

There was something chilling in his old friend’s gaze, an absolute lack of compassion; of consideration of the fact that they had been friends since they’d been old enough to toddle around together. The emptiness in Crabbe’s eyes was enough to give Draco pause and apparently, whatever Crabbe saw in his was enough to assure him that he had been warned.

 

Knocking Draco back even though it wasn’t strictly necessary, Crabbe straightened and nodded in the direction of the corner. With a warning grunt of farewell, Goyle skulked after him.

 

It wasn’t the right thing to do to ignore it and Draco knew it. He was afraid of their brutishness whether that made him a coward or not. Straightening and attempting to pretend that he was absolutely dignified and not quaking in his boots, he hugged Hermione’s present close and thought hard on what to do.

 

His father knew of Zabini’s threat, he had seen to that; so it made sense that his father had also probably ferreted out Crabbe and Goyle’s dimwitted attempt at helping their new leader. His father was not concerned; then perhaps his father did not realize that by being so _stupid_ , they were a clear and present danger. They were not loyal, they had proven that, and as far as he could tell they didn’t give a shit about him personally. A shared history didn’t matter to them. Nothing mattered to them and that in itself worried Draco.

 

But then- and this he could not explain- he was hesitant to bring any of it to light. He didn’t _want_ to hex them, not really. A shared history _did_ mean something to him, even if it was something small and miniscule. He didn’t necessarily want bad things to happen to them and moreover- and here was the strange part- he was certain on some intuitive level that if more people _knew_ … Too many people knew. Potter would find out. _Granger_ would find out. He thought of the anger that would cause and suddenly did not want that. His mind was foggy obviously; clearly he was an idiot but…

 

But she had done nothing to him, not a thing, since his disgraced return to Hogwarts. She had been icy, sure, but she had been nothing but civil and in these last weeks she had been… almost a friend, if he was the sort of person to have Muggleborn friends. He would lose that and then what? Clandestine meetings with Parkinson to pass the time? He’d go crazy if he had to continue in forced isolation.

 

Which was irritatingly Crabbe and Goyle’s point, wasn’t it? He was being too friendly. He was being too everything. And, while he did not like warnings from such buffoons, he noted it begrudgingly, even if he had no idea what to do about it.

 

Glancing at the package in his hands, he wished very hard that it hadn’t been he who was chosen. Not this time.

 

**

 

Hermione was waiting for him in his rooms when he returned, sitting on his couch with her cat in her lap all but preening at her makeshift tree. Despite how shaky he still felt, a very tiny part of him was glad to see her, if only because she was truly the only person who was being upfront with him. Smiling in what he hoped was a pleasant way, he tossed her a greeting.

 

“Are you going to come down for supper?” she asked, angling towards him, “You needn’t sit at the Slytherin table all on your own, you know. It makes more sense with so few of us that we all might sit together.”

 

Draco thought of Crabbe and Goyle’s warning and was miffed to realize that he didn’t think he had the finesse to carry off being watched while at the same time making it look like he didn’t particularly care for Granger’s company. The whole thing reeked of morals, something that he would never admit to possessing. It was a cut and dried matter, really. Seduce girl with lovely thoughts of friendship and cozy Christmas chats. Betray girl promptly next morning by sending her quite intentionally into the arms of her rapist and potential murderer. Simple instructions if only he could remember that the girl wasn’t _really_ a girl, just a stupid worthless Mudblood. Not a human at all. Nothing to him. Uneasily, he regarded Hermione and wondered just when he had forgotten the distinction. It was an amateurish mistake to make and yet… Witness him making it.

 

“I would never sit at the Gryffindor table,” he told her, affecting a shudder, “How could you even think it let alone _say_ it?!”

 

Only Hermione seemed to have forgotten the clearly drawn line between stuck up racist prat and companion as well. She smiled at him in an entirely familiar way.

 

“You’re so full of bluster, Draco. You talk an awful lot without _saying_ anything. It’s just a table.”

 

“Yes, well. You never saw Potty rush over to rub wands with Zabini, did you?” Only less with the innuendo and more with the actual cursing. Yes, that would have suited Draco nicely.

 

“Different.” An eye roll. “But I just popped by to throw it out there. I’m going to go and change for dinner. Just consider it.”

 

“Consider it considered.” And he smiled.

 

Hermione scoffed at that and rose, holding her squirming cat tight against her chest. She didn’t look back at him once as she made her way out of his rooms and Draco thought rather harshly that he was going through a lot of trouble for someone who didn’t even bother saying goodbye to him. In fact, he was thinking entirely too much about someone who most certainly wasn’t in the right state of mind to be thought about in any way that didn’t involve… oh, he didn’t know… say homework help. Miserably, he raked a hand through his hair.

 

Right on cue, he saw a flash of brown outside of his window. He tried not to groan; tried to convince himself that it was a trick of the light. But then there was a soft tapping and there was no way to escape the fact that he _was_ a stuck up racist prat and she a worthless Mudblood, was there?

 

Grumbling underneath his breath, he went to the window, pried it open, grabbed the note off of the owl’s daintily outstretched leg, and slammed the glass down again before he had a chance to tell whether or not the blasted bird wanted a reply.

 

“Merry Christmas, son!” he mimicked as he unrolled the paper.

 

Rather: _I would have thought a Malfoy would have known better than to ignore the orders of his father. Blatantly disregarding my wishes suggests that you are becoming softhearted towards the girl; a softhearted son serves no purpose to anyone. You will heed me, boy, or live with the consequences. **What news of G.?**_

 

Quite against his will, Draco’s eyes darted to the grate of his fireplace. The previous note was gone, burned away to nothing; he imagined it was still there, watching him and waiting with an evil tenacity for him to screw up.

 

It had been a small rebellion really; what teenage boy _couldn’t_ say that he’d laughed in the face of an occasional order from his father? All perfectly normal when one was growing up. “Take out the rubbish, son!” with a once in awhile, “Sod off!” as a reply? Normal.

 

Still, a tiny bit of fear thread its way up his spine. This was not a mundane order; his father was not a normal every day sort of dad (he couldn’t even imagine calling him that. How casual!). Warnings from Lucius Malfoy were to be taken seriously. There was not a doubt in his mind all of a sudden that Lucius knew of a similar one falling from the lips of Crabbe; if anything it was entirely possible that his father had put it in someone’s ear that he should hear one. If his old friend’s admonition chilled him, this further line of thought made him piss-his-pants afraid of, and sure of, retribution. He didn’t even care if that line of thinking was convoluted. His father was going to kill him.

 

And yet his eyes darted to that stupid want-to-be Christmas tree and a small protest made itself heard deep inside of him. Hermione _was_ just a girl, a nice girl at that, and she didn’t deserve what he had done to her. He couldn’t think of doling out more. It didn’t sit right. Again with those bloody morals that he wanted nothing to do with. Again with the shame from his father.

 

Too much. It was all too much.

 

Sighing, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and exited his rooms, mind set firmly on supper.

 

**

 

As far as Christmas Eve feasts went, McGonagall had quite out done herself. The Great Hall was done up with enough glory to make the First Years forget that Dumbledore had once sat in her seat; there was food enough to feed a small army. Only Draco felt bogged down by memories. Everyone else seemed to be studiously ignoring it and, furthermore, ignoring him- the cause of such change.

 

In the end, it was Hermione who picked up her plate and moved to the Slytherin table, without so much as a glance at Crabbe and Goyle’s mirror image scowls. It was Hermione who was brassier and ballsier than Draco could ever be. She marched to the table with the true pride of a Gryffindor, head held high as she walked into the lion’s den. She even went so far as to seat herself casually, as though spending time with her rivals was something she did everyday. Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen more reckless class. When she smiled at him, it was the most powerful and in control thing he’d ever seen.

 

“What are we plotting?” she asked with delicious delight as she reached for the potatoes.

 

She might not have spared Crabbe and Goyle much thought; Draco did. A quick glance down the table confirmed that they were indeed watching them and he repressed the urge to pick up Granger in order to bodily remove her from his table. She would be the death of him doing this. Seeing the maniacal light in his friends’ eyes, he was sure of it.

 

He tried to cover his nerves with a snappy, “Should you be sitting here?” Then, “ _What_?”

 

Hermione, quite unabashed, smiled at him. “You know. You’re wicked evil Slytherins. Always plotting something. So, what is it?”

 

“Crabbe and Goyle’s demise,” he mumbled low.

 

This time she looked at them and her eyebrows shot up in the face of their dogged spying. “Oh. Am I causing trouble sitting here? I’ll take points off of them, if you like.”

 

“For what? Staring? Don’t bother. Just never mind. Ignore them.” _And for Merlin’s sake, don’t look so friendly towards me._ “Is the food better over here? I’ve always suspected it is.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say your gravy looks rather lumpy.”

 

He pff’d at that and dug his fork into a simply scrumptious looking piece of turkey. He could still feel his friends’ eyes like daggers in his back but set his mind to ignoring them, just as he’d told her to do. Even with them, even with the fear of his father, he suddenly felt that what he was doing was completely _right_. If ignoring them all was the only correct thing he ever did, he knew he could take a little pride in it. He supposed that one had to be brassy and ballsy to ignore the orders of a Malfoy; that perhaps he wasn’t _completely_ unlike Granger after all. And it wasn’t like he was turning his back on his father, quite the contrary. He was merely stepping aside on this one.

 

“You’re dumb to sit here,” he told her almost pleasantly.

 

“It’s just a table. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. You look so pathetic sitting here by yourself. No one can begrudge anyone anything at Christmas.”

 

However, that brassy smile warbled and he just knew she knew how naïve and utterly ridiculous such a statement was. History was full of Christmas Eve massacres and somehow he didn’t think that his people cared either way for the date. Bloodshed was bloodshed, after all.

 

Keeping his voice low and angling so that the great buffoons couldn’t lip read, he said, “Are you coming to my rooms after supper? And bringing candy? We can wait until midnight and then get right on those presents.” He let his smile become utterly selfish. How he did love presents!

 

She made a rueful noise around a mouthful of food and swallowed before answering with a tone Draco did not quite recognize. “How could I not? What on earth could possibly be better than spending Christmas Eve waiting for presents with my self-absorbed enemy?”

 

Was she flirting with him? The idea was so absurd that he took a moment to stare inquisitively at her. She didn’t bat her lashes coquettishly and surely he’d misheard her tone. Perhaps she and her silly little Gryffindor friends always tossed around tones like that when they were in their own company. It was a ridiculous notion anyway; she was just teasing. All the same, his heart pounded embarrassingly hard and he had to drop his gaze in fear that she would see everything he had done against her.

 

“Not your enemy.” And he wished he could tell her that the odds against her were more than she could possibly have thought. Wished he could tell her that he saw it wasn’t right and was going to ignore any further correspondence for as long as he could. “Not anymore, Granger.”

 

His earnestness surprised her. “What then, Draco? What are we if we’re not what we’ve always been?”

 

He didn’t have an answer for her. Instead, he turned to face Crabbe and Goyle, who were now pointedly _not_ watching, and said, “We’re different.”

 

**

 

In the end, Christmas Eve turned out to be alarmingly like some sort of Muggle slumber party.

 

Promptly after supper, Draco had returned to his rooms and, while he was not quite comfortable enough to forgo his more formal dress clothes entirely, he shunned his robes and loosened his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. Caught up entirely on his new wave of rebelliousness, he even untucked it. It was a sort of slovenly _stupid_ rebellion but he preened around his rooms all disordered and untucked and beamed at every inanimate object he crossed paths with.

 

He was in the process of dragging his blanket from his bedroom to a strategically chosen location underneath his makeshift tree when Granger arrived. She looked more casual than he did; for a fleeting second, he felt dumb for not changing into his holey shirt and old trousers. She seemed to be thinking the same thought in reverse if the way she pulled at her sweatshirt was any indication. Then, chin tipped up, she spread out her own blanket right where he’d planned on putting his and laid down her book bag beside the set up.

 

“Candy,” she announced, opening her bag and shoveling some out.

 

If he had been annoyed about losing the prime location, sweets wiped it completely from his mind. Gingerly, he spread his blanket beside Granger and grabbed up a carefully wrapped chocolate frog.

 

“What now?” he asked, genuinely curious, “Do we just sit here all friendly like until the presents appear? That’s-” a quick glance at his watch – “oh Merlin, that’s four _hours_ from now.”

 

Hermione smiled at him in a way that was just so patently _her_. “Why, we do homework, of course. I skived off so many classes that I’m behind and goodness knows that _you_ could probably use a few hours of quality studying. I can’t let this… minor inconvenience hurt my marks.”

 

Draco wanted to deny her ‘minor inconvenience’ but the way she smashed her lips together and stared at him challengingly made it quite clear that, while she might speak of the last few weeks in a trifling manner, she was more than aware that the events had been nothing short of major. Chin up and what all. He could admire her gumption.

 

“Well, if _you_ need help,” he said instead, groping behind himself for the textbooks he’d discarded on the coffee table cheerfully on the last day of school.

 

Hermione scoffed at that and then fell silent, adjusting her position enough to hold her notebook on her knees. Craning his neck, Draco saw that she was working on Potions and decided to do the same.

 

Time flew by after that, the silence of Draco’s rooms broken only by the soft scratching of identical quills. Hermione was a quiet worker, one who threw herself into her task with rapt attention. As for him, he liked to talk to himself while working but he reined that habit in for the sake of pride.

 

When they did find the need to speak, they did not directly ask for help- that would be admitting failure- but managed to communicate the need for it all the same. He was surprised by her. The first question he did not ask was pushed out with embarrassing effort and he had been afraid of a cutting remark. She, however, was nothing but patient and he knew she enjoyed his need of her intelligence just as much as he did when she subtly did not request it.

 

When Hermione at last set her quill aside, he was shocked to realize it was almost eleven o’clock.

 

“Well, that was fun.” And she meant it. Carefully, she slid her books back into her bag, fluffed out her blanket, and scurried underneath it, pillow propped just so for back support. “Ron and Harry would never just let me work in peace. I enjoyed that.”

 

He smirked at her. “Ron and Harry are nowhere near as dedicated to their schoolwork as I am.”

 

She looked like she wanted to argue that point; like she wanted to defend her friends. At last, she let out a long suffering sigh and said, “Other things matter more to them. I guess you can’t fault people for that.”

 

“Guess not.”

 

And awkward. Leaning back under his blankets as well, he stared at the lumps their feet made under the cloth, his so much further down than hers. The room was so quiet that he could hear her sucking her chocolate.

 

He didn’t ask because he cared; he asked to break the silence. “What would you normally be doing for Christmas?”

 

Hermione’s eyes darted to the angel on top of her tree. “We have family over. Or I’d be at the Burrow. Depends on how things were progressing…”

 

She trailed off but he heard the silent _with Ron_ , _with the war_. He found himself uncomfortable and strangely peevish. Glancing around the room, he thought it wouldn’t be too bad if things were only this.

 

“My mother used to throw elaborate parties,” Draco volunteered, fiddling with the edge of the blanket closest to her, “Everybody used to come. Real classy events, you know? Mother had us in dress robes for whole bloody holiday. Not last year obviously but…”

 

Wondered if she heard what he left silent too. She must have because she sent him a game sort of smile before saying casually, “And Pansy? She there too?”

 

“Of course. Why?” Suspicious now.

 

Granger was wearing her best inquisitive face. “Well, the two of you spent a lot of time together. You took her to the Yule Ball and I heard about what you got up to on the train that time.”

 

He arched an eyebrow. “We were all but betrothed for awhile, Granger. Everyone expected it. Where are you going with this?”

 

She coloured a little. “Well, Pansy is not exactly… that is to say, she is prettier than she used to be and you’re… you.”

 

“Brilliant observation.”

 

“Thing is, I thought you would have shagged her. We _all_ thought you would have shagged her. Why on earth didn’t you?”

 

Draco didn’t want to answer that. Slumping down all the way onto his back, he glared at the ceiling and tried to find a way out of it. He supposed a simple, “Mind your own bloody business” would work but the hushed silence of his rooms was giving him a false sense of intimacy. He felt close to her and strangely okay confiding these things. Crabbe and Goyle’s threat did not even pierce his subconscious when he turned his head to gaze at her.

 

“Pansy’s a clever girl even if you’ll never credit it. She’s a master manipulator and a brilliant actress. She can make you think all sorts of things are true. I honestly thought she was absolutely besotted with me for awhile. Guess it’s just not as fun when you know she’s only hanging off of you because she feels she has to.”

 

“That’s strangely honourable of you, Draco,” she conceded, smiling in a way that made him think she’d figured out something he hadn’t even realized was a puzzle yet. It was a positively Granger-like smile, familiar and yet somehow not annoying. He watched her nose crinkle with self-satisfaction; watched her eyes fill with the confidence of knowing she was right about whatever she was thinking. Looking at her like this made him feel like squirming. Looking at her like this reminded him of the conviction he’d felt watching her sleep with his father’s note crushed in his fingers. Enough.

 

“Don’t think I did it for her,” he offered in weak defense.

 

“Whatever. You probably did. You’re probably just like Harry deep down inside.” She tried to maintain a straight face only to fail miserably.

 

Smiling, Draco leaned in her direction and tried to shut her up by ramming his palm against her mouth. She squirmed backwards, giggling and kicking her blanket in his direction.

 

“Don’t put your hand on my mouth,” she said around her laughter, “It’s probably covered in germs. I hope you wash after using the toilets. I hope you- mmph.”

 

Victory was his! Resisting the urge to chuckle, he pressed his hand firmly against her mouth and tumbled her backwards, following her momentum enough to pin her down with his spare hand. She squirmed underneath his grasp, cheeks tinting pink, and managed to jam a playful knee into his stomach.

 

“Take it back, Granger,” he ordered on a grunt, “Say I’m not a thing like Potter. Not a bloody thing.”

 

She began to splutter, shooting annoyed glances down at his palm. Oh right. Her mouth. He lifted his hand with a smirk, settled it on her other arm.

 

“You’re nowhere near as good as he,” was what she said but her eyes were twinkling.

 

Draco shrugged, thinking that that was probably true enough. “From your point of view, naturally.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

Nodding, he sent her his best supercilious glance. She met it with an arch one of her own, smiling curiously when he did not move.

 

For his part, Draco was taking advantage of having her near and smiling. He had never seen her so close up while being genuinely happy. It made him feel odd and detached; he scrutinized her like some sort of strange species he had never seen before.

 

She had said Pansy was prettier than she used to be; he figured the same thing could be said about her. Her hair wasn’t awful and her teeth were better than he remembered them being. Her cheeks were still rosy from her weak attempts at holding him off and she felt soft underneath his hands. Each time she took a breath, the subtle curve of her breasts brushed his thumbs. His knee was touching her thigh. Abruptly, he had the urge to hold himself perfectly still.

 

Distantly, he recalled the fact that Hermione was an abomination… only she did not look like one up close. She felt just as Pansy had the few times his friend had permitted him to go beyond a handhold, all pliable warmth. She smelled of feminine things, of something floral and nostalgic, not dirty and low. Tentatively, he lifted his hand and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

 

The smile on her lips abruptly died; he knew this because he was watching her mouth. His father, Crabbe and Goyle, and Zabini… all of them flew threw his mind with lightning speed, prodding and ordering and wanting him to _destroy_ this girl beneath him, to smite her down in the lowest possible way. He felt strangely removed from them too, as though nothing existed outside of his rooms. The few ornaments on his coat rack that Hermione had charmed twinkled in the corner of his eye.

 

It might have been the most impulsive thing he had ever done. It might have been the most planned out. Either way, he felt a strange pull in his stomach and went with it, leaning towards her as his eyes fell shut.

 

“Draco.”

 

The panic in her voice was feather light but there. He opened his eyes and he saw that hers were as well; that they were regarding him with wary uncertainty. Hermione was frowning now and if he had gone still, she was much stiller. The colour was gone from her cheeks.

 

Abruptly, he saw them as she must. Merlin, he was even _pinning_ her down. He withdrew his hands so fast he nearly lost his balance; scooted backwards to his own blanket. Hers was tangled and he thrust it at her.

 

For a moment, she did not take it, choosing instead to remain on her back. When she did sit up, she snatched it right away, regarding him cautiously despite his distance.

 

“You don’t trust me,” he said flatly.

 

Not that it mattered. She shouldn’t trust him. He had lied to her in every way possible. But for some reason it did. Surely the fact that he recognized that continuing on in that vein was wrong had to count for something. Surely it wiped out his past offenses. Surely he had done nothing that she knew of that should make her look at him like that.

 

Hermione shrugged but still she met his gaze, steadfast and brave as always. “I wish everything was different. I wish I could tell you everything. I wish you hadn’t always hated me so vehemently. It might make everything easier.”

 

There were a million things about that he wanted to jump on. Instead, he chose, “Didn’t always hate you so vehemently.”

 

An eyebrow shot up and he smiled wryly. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and slumped backwards. Offered her a truce.

 

“I saw you on the train the very first day of school. You were really giving it to the Weasel over his unkempt appearance and I thought you were quite possibly _the_ neatest thing. Imagine my utter disappointment when I found out you were Muggleborn.”

 

“Imagine mine when I found out that the only person in Potions with half a brain was a stuck up sod.” And she offered up a tentative smile of her own. " _Win **gar** dium Levi **o** sa_."

 

“Hermione?” he said dully, reaching forward to touch her fingers where they rested on her blanket, “I wish I could tell you everything too.”

 

She caught her breath at that and he _knew_ not prodding was just as much a physical effort as a mental one. The wariness was there again but he did not chafe at it this time. Guilt made him hold her gaze.

 

“Draco?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Hermione hesitated. “You’d tell me if I was in immediate danger, wouldn’t you?”

 

Would he? It unnerved him to think that he would, so much that he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. Feeling like the biggest chicken shit ever born, he inclined his head in a nod.

 

Hermione nodded back. She sounded sad when she said, “It’s almost 11:40. Your presents’ll come in twenty minutes. If I have things I can’t say to you and you have things you can’t say to me, then let’s just not talk. Let’s not spoil Christmas Eve with secrets.”

 

Her fingers trembled beneath his, from stress or from fear, he could not tell. Surprisingly, Hermione was the one who inched up her hand, entwining them together. He watched her gaze dart around the room, her eyes tired and resigned. When they fell on the door, he knew he saw fear. She tightened her grip and shifted closer, clinging to his hand in a way that let him know that she saw everything in that moment just as he did- them and their damnable secrets against the whole world.

 

With his spare hand, he fluffed the blankets around them. Then he squeezed her hand right back, his own gaze subconsciously tracing hers to the door. Leaned over just enough so that his shoulder brushed hers; told himself he was supporting her burden. Twenty minutes later when his presents came neither interrupted their pointless vigil.

 

**

 

Hermione was gone in the morning but Draco hadn’t really expected anything else. Groggily, he pushed himself up from the floor and winced at the tension in his neck. He was a little disgusted with himself, truth be known. He had a slight suspicion that Malfoys did not fall asleep on the floor.

 

The sight of a pile of presents spread haphazardly underneath his blasted coat rack soothed his pride a little. He attacked them with feral excitement, surrounding himself completely in torn paper and brand new clothes with the speed of a two year old. A missing father and a distant mother didn’t seem to do much harm in terms of gifts.

 

He made it halfway through the pile before his ardor began to wean. After all, getting so many stupendous presents wasn’t half as exciting without anyone there with him to witness just how loved and spoiled he apparently was. He thought dismally of Pansy, tucked away at the Parkinson estate, probably clinging to some stupid trinket from that Irish git like it was worth everything. He thought of Hermione and-

 

Oh bloody hell. The pensieve.

 

Away from the store and the excitement of Christmas shopping, Draco thought of Hermione’s gift and felt utterly stupid and ridiculous. He wondered if she was in her rooms or if she’d gone down to the Great Hall. The Gryffindor common room perhaps? The Auror- Robert? Roger?- would have left to do his rounds. Perhaps he could sneak in somehow and steal it back before anyone found out about it.

 

“Preserve your happy memories, Hermione,” he sing-songed, rubbing his eyes testily, “Have a good laugh at your old nemesis Malfoy! He’s gone soft!”

 

But his plans were all irrational. It would take too long to stumble across her password. The Auror whatshisname would come back. Hermione would come back. Hermione might not have _left_ her rooms at all and then he’d have to act all chipper and Christmas-y, and not full arsed embarrassed.

 

What was his best course of action? Hermione probably _was_ with all the Gryffindors. Perhaps he could sneak down to the Great Hall and grab a bite to eat without ever running across her. Yes, that was just the thing. Everything would not make him feel so much like a pouf if he had a full stomach.

 

Twenty minutes later, Draco had changed into fresh clothes and was halfway to his breakfast. Nerves tickled down his spine, making him look this way and that for a glimpse of bushy hair while straining his ears for a hint of her voice. If he saw her, he would have to get away. Best to be on his guard until he figured out the best way to handle things. Best to avoid her forever.

 

Unfortunately for Draco, if his thoughts hadn’t been so occupied and his watchful eye so narrowly trained, he would have noticed that his steps were dogged. If he was not so hell bent on his purpose, he might have been holding his wand, rather than being hardly aware of it inside of his robes. Worst of all, when hands closed around his arms and yanked him back from the main corridor into a dark passageway, he might not have thought first of Hermione.

 

“Have a pleasant evening with the slut? She spread her legs for you too? Panting after the Mudblood just as he said you would. And to think I thought you were better than me.” Crabbe’s voice, his breath hot and sickening on Draco’s neck.

 

Draco stiffened, not bothering to writhe in his once comrade’s grasp. Crabbe was stronger than he and Goyle was standing by, leaning against the stone walls with a superior smirk on his face.

 

Well, hadn’t he fucked up. _Of course_ someone would see Hermione entering his rooms eventually. Even Pansy had. He wondered if his father knew. He wondered why everyone was choosing to view things negatively when he _could_ have been doing what they asked. He remembered the incident in the bathroom at the beginning of the year and felt their fists in his memory. Swallowing what might have been panic, he fell back on the only weapon he had.

 

“Just like he said?” he parroted, flexing his muscles to see if Crabbe’s fists would give a little. Nothing there though but brute strength. “I suppose _he_ would know. Your idiot father is just the sort of man who would do that kind of thing and get off on it.”

 

It was Goyle who spoke, laughing cruelly. “His idiot father?”

 

Crabbe’s chuckle echoed it and Draco was just beginning to think he might have picked the wrong route when Crabbe yanked his arms back hard enough to drive the wind right out of his lungs. He did struggle then, squirming hard against the liquid heat in his shoulders. Goyle moved and, through it, Draco realized the validity of his new painful position. The shorter boy’s chubby hands were in Draco’s robes before he could figure out a way to stop it and, even flailing his legs for a good kick, his wand was in Goyle’s grasp in no time.

 

“Blood traitor,” muttered Goyle, eyes glinting murderously.

 

Things happened much too quickly after that. Divested of his only defense, Draco made it only too easy for them to make good on their threats. He fell forward on a hard shove, smashing onto the stones. He tried to scramble forward and up but someone’s foot was in his ribs and it _fucking_ hurt. A sickening crunch made him see stars and taste bile; the corridor was spinning but he could not make a sound because, even if he had never excelled at doling out physical pain without his wand, he could take it and-

 

A knee slammed into his back, flattening him completely. One of them was sitting on him, there were hands in his hair, and his head was being wrenched up, up, up. Draco flailed his arms out wildly; his hand connected with something that might have been shin. Yes, those were trousers beneath his fingers and if he could just reach and grab onto... There. Yanking hard made the pain in his shoulders unbearable but at least there was the satisfaction of someone falling; of Goyle grunting when his arse hit the ground.

 

A _momentary_ satisfaction because Goyle’s grunt quickly turned into an exclamation of rage; he brought his own fist down hard on Draco’s wrist.

 

Difficult to separate the hurt in his shoulders from the hurt in his wrist; the hurt in his back. His blood was running white hot and he _knew_ what was coming before Crabbe forced his head down. Tried to stiffen his neck to slow the impact and, when that failed, illogically turned it.

 

No good. The right side of his face met stone with alarming speed; his head felt near to explode and he gasped as blood flooded his mouth and poured from his nose. It was a risky hit and one that only came once- the purpose here was not to kill him, after all- but it put an end to the fight in Draco.

 

Even as Crabbe rose, even as their freshly polished boots slammed into him again and again, the pain was becoming a soft distant thing. Blood was all around him, running in a pool underneath his cheek. He was choking on it; breathing it. Sound was muffled- was he _hearing_ blood? Quiet grunts and foul words as darkness tugged at his vision.

 

From a distant place, he saw his wand as it dropped in front of him. Knew the blows had stopped. One of them hissed, “Consider yourself warned” and he half heard their hasty exit.

 

Couldn’t breathe. His ribs. His back. His face.

 

Gasping in a puddle of unending red, Draco gave into the darkness.

 

**

 

Sometime later, Draco awoke, alone in the corridor.

 

The pain was not distant now. His whole body was throbbing and he could hardly breathe through it. Stars danced before him and he was hot, so hot. It hurt even to blink. His whole fucking head felt like it had been paraded on by Hippogriffs and when he summoned enough strength and willpower to fight the pain enough to blink, he caught sight of his own blood everywhere. His stomach lurched too fast for him to stop it, to think of how it would _feel_ on his chest and his ribs and _everywhere_. Fighting tears, he threw up what was left of last night’s candy. Moving was unbearable but he lurched an inch away from the gore, gagging at the smell and the sight before him.

 

So much like that night, he realized hysterically, in the snow. Hermione’s blood and his vomit.

 

No good to think on that.

 

He had to stand. That was something to think on. He could not stay here where he might be seen. The thought of rising made him want to bawl; made him want to be sick again. Clenching his teeth so he wouldn’t shout, he rolled onto his back and began a careful inventory with shaky fingers.

 

His face was a sticky mess but he did not think his nose was broken, miracle upon miracle. His jaw was beyond tender and he had definitely bit through his lip. Couldn’t see at all out of his right eye but a hesitant examination revealed it swollen shut, not blinded.

 

Draco could wiggle his toes and move his legs so that was all to the good. His wrist was sore from where Goyle had smashed it but not damaged enough to prevent movement.

 

His ribs then.

 

Touching them took more balls than he thought he had. The first tentative prod nearly shot him right off the floor, sore head or not. Definitely broken. Or cracked.

 

“Fuck.” Even talking hurt.

 

But he could breathe and that was something. Nothing had been punctured then.

 

It took a few more minutes for Draco to gather the courage to rise. He lurched to his feet, swaying perilously and choking on the throbbing his ribs emitted. It was torture having to reach up to flip up the hood on his robes but he saw the necessity in it, even if he required a break after it. Tears stung his left eye but he would _not_. Not here in the corridor. Not anywhere.

 

“ _Accio wand_ ,” he murmured, feeling infinitely better when it slapped into his palm.

 

He needed Madam Pomfrey, of that there was no doubt. He needed Skele-Gro for his ribs. He needed a hell of a lot more than a Calming Draught. He needed a lot of things.

 

Instead, he thought of Hermione and her nearly identical version of the walk he had to make now, when her arm had been mangled and she had been damaged. Taking deep breaths, he put one foot forward.

 

**

 

Later on, he would not remember the walk to his rooms. Surely it was an exercise in torture. Surely it was more than he could have possibly been expected to bear. He would remember nothing up until arriving in his bathroom, clenching his hands on the sink, and glimpsing himself in the mirror.

 

He was Lucius Malfoy’s son. Draco had trained to handle this.

 

He did not flinch at the sight of his injuries; he had grown used to the idea of his own blood in the corridor, which was a good thing since he was covered in it from the wounds to his nose and lip. There was vomit on his robes. The pain in his ribs had dulled again, receding enough that he was lightheaded. Despite the momentary delusional reprieve, he washed his face quickly and examined his lip and eye. Both he could heal on his own.

 

Only needed Pomfrey for the ribs then.

 

Gingerly, he began to divest himself of his robes, cringing each time he was forced to undo a button. When his shirt fell away, he lost his courage and clenched his good eye shut. Didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to-

 

A tapping. Distant. From the other room. A fucking owl.

 

Panic wrenched that good eye right back open. He didn’t want to get the message. He couldn’t get the message. He couldn’t handle the walk.

 

He couldn’t _ignore_ the message. He had ignored one message too many and he hadn’t paid attention to the Slytherins who clearly had contact with the Dark Lord and now his ribs were smashed and his face was bleeding. It would be his father anyway, he told himself, and his father would _kill_ Crabbe and Goyle for touching him. He was the Malfoy heir, for fuck's sake. His father would not stand for this.

 

Oh Merlin, he was practically hyperventilating, a fact that did nothing to ease the pain in his chest. Hesitantly, he left his bathroom and went to the next room, stumbling to the window. He couldn’t open it physically but he had his wand.

 

To his warped imagination, he thought the owl looked menacing. Pointing his wand at it, he _accio_ ’d the note. The blasted bird did not move, clearly wanting a reply. Draco was perversely afraid of it; he used his wand to slam the window shut and left the bird to wait on the outside of the sill.

 

With shaking hands, he unrolled the paper, mind on fire with excuses he could offer up. Apologies he could make.

 

“ _I warned you that you would not like the consequences of your actions_ ,” read his father’s scrawl, “ _Crabbe and Goyle have pleased me greatly with the speed of their delivery and most importantly with the speed at which their delivery reached my ears. You would do well to remember that you are on thin ice. I am trying to redeem you, you idiot boy, and it would benefit you to think of your future and the future of your family. Learn from this. You will not make the same mistake twice._ ”

 

For a moment, Draco gawked at it. Then he reread it. Once. Twice.

 

It took three times for his anger to blur his pain. The words “pleased me greatly” bounced around inside of his head until he wanted to vomit from that too. “Pleased him greatly.” Lucius Malfoy had heard of his own son’s _beating_ and had been pleased greatly. The idiot boy. The weak son. Draco had decided he did not want to help a rapist further degrade Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy was _pleased_ that Crabbe and Goyle had shown him the error of his ways. Betrayal clogged his throat and he spluttered on a rage so large he could hardly comprehend it.

 

Quite oblivious to the pain now, he went back to the bathroom and faced the mirror. He did not see the purple blotches marring his chest. He saw nothing but his father's disappointment.

 

“Failure,” he said, “Idiot. You’re weak. You _deserve_ this. Granger is a Mudblood. Granger _deserved_ that.”

 

_I’m glad to hear you don’t support that. I never thought you would. You were always such a bright boy._ Rosie’s words fell from nowhere into his mind. _She’s proud of you too, Draco_.

 

The pride he remembered in Rosie’s statement stopped the vitriol flowing from his mouth. For no reason at all and for the first time in years, he wanted his mother. Titling his head back, he shut his left eye and gurgled.

 

“You don’t deserve this,” Draco murmured, testing the words in a hushed voice, “Granger is a girl. Granger doesn’t deserve that.”

 

The resolve he felt in the silence that followed gave him an odd sort of strength. His panic subsided and he felt… hard inside. He had done what was right. He did not want a part of this mission. He had been quite thoroughly beaten but that did not have to change his mind. He was not defying Voldemort, not really. He just wasn't going to do _this_ one little mission. Let them try and change his mind. "Pleased him greatly." What a truly delusional thing for a father to say to his son.

 

These were traitorous thoughts and he felt such a rush of rebellion even thinking them that his toes tingled.

 

Dimly, he was aware of his door opening. Heard Hermione call his name too but he was too far gone in his thoughts to pay her much heed. The pensieve, he noted from somewhere. She must have opened the pensieve.

 

It was her cry that snapped him out of it. He turned to find her in the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth. He saw his bruises through her eyes and was surprised to see that she felt _pain_ on his behalf. She took a quick step forward, only to falter at the sight of his face.

 

Hermione, he thought, was up against more than she could have guessed. Hermione did not know. He would show them all how "pleased with him" they could be.

 

“Who did this?” she gasped.

 

He didn’t bother with lies. “Crabbe and Goyle.”

 

“Because of you being friends with me.”

 

He had to tell her. He didn’t know how he hadn’t thus far. She probably thought that she would only have to face her attacker but there would be much more than that. Zabini, for example. Those fucking brutes who used to be his friends. Merlin knew who else. He wanted her to have a fighting chance; she was going to get slaughtered. He was all she had. She _needed_ him.

 

Hermione advanced on him, withdrawing her wand from somewhere. She pressed it lightly to his lip and whispered the spell, sending tingling shocks through his mouth. She moved it to his eye but he caught her wrist in order to silence her before she had a chance to speak.

 

Hermione Granger was going to hate him but that he deserved.

 

“Don’t.”

 

She looked puzzled. “Why not?”

 

If it wasn’t for that horrid resolve, Draco might have changed his mind. Her whole face looked fervent and had anyone really ever bothered before with his injuries? He was going to lose her. He was going to be alone. Even Pansy would hate him for what he had done. He closed his good eye against the sight of Hermione's concern.

 

“There’s something you need to know, Hermione.”

 

“Draco?” Her voice trembled with anticipation. With dread. “What is it?”

 

He was glad his eye was closed. Taking a deep breath, he whispered, “I… Listen, I think what happened to you is terrible. I want you to know that. I think what he’s doing to you now is a dirty way of fighting. You don’t deserve this, Granger, and you have to know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.”

 

She grabbed onto his arms, squeezing so tightly that he winced. “Draco. What have you done?”

 

“Crabbe and Goyle did this because I didn’t follow orders,” he said, driven by this newfound rebellion; this newfound righteousness. “I was sending my father owls. It was my job to tell him how you were doing mentally so that he could pass it on to your attacker or whomever and they could plan things. I’m _sorry_. I never knew what they were going to send you, I swear it. And I stopped when I saw… when I saw how bad it was. Hermione, I-”

 

The slap she delivered made the one from third year seem paltry. His cheek stung and her thumb slammed just under his swollen right eye. If it hadn’t been Hermione bloody Granger herself who had healed his lip, he suspected her slap might have reopened it. He owed it to her to witness this, however, and so he opened his left eye.

 

Hermione trembled before him, absolutely red in the face with rage and hurt. She was hugging herself hard, eyes bright with tears and lips strangely white. Guilt slammed into him harder than her hand had and he sucked in a quick breath.

 

“You fucking asshole!” she accused and slapped him again. “You fucking asshole. ‘You don’t trust me.’ You said that to me! You _said_ that and you _knew_.”

 

She began to cackle to herself and Draco forced himself to regard her levelly; to take whatever she hurled his way like the perfect little soldier. When her hysterical giggles turned into sobs, he wanted to sink through the bathroom floor.

 

“I knew it. I knew there was _something_. You didn’t leave me in the woods, fine. But then you _helped_ me and I knew something had to be off about that. But _telling_? Draco, how could you?”

 

“How couldn’t I.” And he dropped his gaze. “How couldn’t I, Hermione?”

 

She laughed, a sad sound that wasn’t very hysterical. Her voice was deceptively soft when she said, “Do you know the worst part?”

 

He shook his head, refusing to glance up.

 

“The worst part, Draco, is that you have _no_ idea what you’ve done.”

 

He did look up then and found her staring at him, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. Her fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically by her sides. She was as upset as he had ever seen her but there was steel in her voice.

 

“I want you to have a fighting chance,” he offered, dumbly.

 

She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. Took a step away from him.

 

“You might as well have handed me over.” Another step and she was back in the doorway, hand on the frame. Hermione met his gaze and he saw hatred there. “I came to say thank you for the present. I've said it now so you stay the hell away from me, Malfoy. If you even so much as look at me, I’ll tell McGonagall. I’ll hex you myself.”

 

He said, “I’m sorry” but she was already gone. He listened to the patter of her shoes as she fled; heard the door slam behind her. Then he sunk to the floor, heedless of his physical pain, and leaned his head back against the wall.

 

“Not an idiot. Don't deserve this,” he swore to himself, closing his good eye against a rapidly forming salty sting, “I did the right thing.”

 

**TBC...**  
 **Next Time:** Hermione is furious but she has a proposition to make.


	10. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that, after the wait I put you guys through, that this chapter is slow to take off. Real life permitting, I should have 10 up soon. Thank you so much for your patience!

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Nine  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Hermione has a proposition to make.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author’s Notes: I’m sorry that, after the wait I put you guys through, that this chapter is slow to take off. Real life permitting, I should have 10 up soon. Thank you so much for your patience!  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

 

 

“It’s funny how you can forget  
There’s a world outside yourself  
Where the one who loves you keeps on living  
Without you there…”

\- Azure Ray’s “The Trees Keep Growing”

 

 

 

Draco spent the final week of his Christmas holidays in self-imposed isolation, huddled alone in the darkness of his rooms with nothing but the throbbing in his ribs for company. He had sent a house elf on an errand for a book on non-magical injuries and had decided to forgo the trip to Madam Pomfrey’s based entirely on the fact that broken ribs would heal just fine on their own eventually, since his lungs clearly were not punctured. Saved him the bother of having to come up with a suitable lie.

 

As for everything else, he didn’t bother with healing spells for an entirely different reason. He found somewhat to his horror that he _liked_ watching himself grow ugly in the mirror; had a sick fascination with watching the skin around his black eye flare purple before fading to an unattractive and persistent green. There was a gash under his eye that he hadn’t noticed before, likely from the unfortunate moment when his face had been introduced to the floor-- that or from Hermione’s slap. It was particularly pleasing as far as ugly wounds went: it oozed something he couldn’t identify and clearly should have been cleaned immediately, rather than ignored to the point it was at now. He couldn’t stop running his finger over his healed lip, obsessing over the memory of Hermione’s magic.

 

In the aftermath of everything, his jaw felt tender; his bite off. He wasn’t sure it hurt enough to be broken but it bruised all the same, making the right side of his face appear truly horrific. He liked to poke at it and his ribs as well, flinching and groaning in the darkness of his bedroom. Lying on his side was pure agony but, even if he went to bed on his back, he always woke that way, dizzy and delirious with pain.

 

In that week, he received three owls. One was from McGonagall inquiring whether he had decided to skip out without informing her, since she hadn’t noted his presence in the Great Hall since Christmas Eve. The second came from his father, demanding to know why he still was not sending him any news. Hermione sent him the third, snippily requesting that he please reply to McGonagall. She had signed it officially as Head Girl.

 

To McGonagall he recycled Hermione’s lie about having the flu but not feeling poorly enough to need Pomfrey and had not felt at all guilty for doing so. After all, McGonagall hadn’t even bothered with the trip to his rooms, and he was sure she would have for anyone else. To his father, he informed him that he was having trouble walking, thanks ever so. Hermione’s letter he ignored.

 

It was in truth the longest week of his life, one that left him doubting his very sanity by the end of it. He watched, feverish with lonesome envy, through his window as the students returned from their homes and flocked up to the doors arm in arm with their comrades. He stopped turning on the lights because he figured he could hear the conversations from the corridor better in the dark. Some days he did not bother leaving his bed. Once he forgot to eat, not that it mattered since his jaw hurt enough to make it difficult anyway. He summoned house elves far more than strictly necessary, cringing at the sound of his voice each time he ordered them to do something.

 

It was in this state that Pansy Parkinson discovered him.

 

Draco would not have opened the door at all if he hadn’t been on his way to the bathroom, steps slow and laborious (he was truly starting to doubt the validity of his ribs healing by themselves). He ignored her first knock, staring down the door with shifty eyes, but when she pounded again and called his name, he hobbled over and swung it open.

 

Pansy took one look at him, haggard and framed in darkness, and jumped a surprised step back into the corridor. He took one look at her, perfectly done up as always, and cackled. He had truly gone crazy, he thought cheerfully; was absolutely nutters really.

 

“Merlin, Malfoy,” was what Pansy said after collecting herself. “You look like death!” She came inside quickly and, after glancing up and down the corridor, closed the door. “I came as soon as Zabini told me what Crabbe and Goyle did. I thought you might be in really awful shape when you weren’t out and about today.”

 

“Just peachy, thanks,” he said, sending her a cheeky grin that probably looked more like a grimace. Then he turned his back on her and continued on his way to the toilet.

 

Pansy had lit up the room when he returned and was perched on his couch, a truly disgusted expression on her face. He just barely resisted the urge to hiss at the light and scuttle back to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, folding her hands and gazing at him with the manner of a disapproving governess. “Why haven’t you healed anything? What exactly is hurt? How can you stand it in here? Have you opened the windows at all? It smells horridly stale, Draco, like sickness.”

 

“Well, I _am_ sick. And now I’m going to have a bit of a lie down, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

It was hard to maintain an air of Malfoy-esque distance when it was such a bother walking places. Tipping his chin back and making sure to pass her in such a way that she’d get a look at his right side, he did his best to strut back to his bedroom.

 

Pansy deceptively waited until he had enough time to settle in; then she marched right after him and yanked down the covers. Draco cringed away from her hands but, without experiencing piercing pain each time she moved, Pansy had the advantage. Sending him an apologetically brisk smile, she unbuttoned his top for a better look. Sucked in a quick breath when she saw his marred skin.

 

“They’re broken,” she guessed, running her fingers down his front. She prodded gently when he sucked in a breath, all business like. It was impossible to miss that she possessed the required grooming to be a Death Eater’s wife someday. “Your jaw too maybe. I’m not sure your eye should look like that. You’ve got a cut just here that I bet you didn’t clean and you’re feeling quite warm. Could be you have an infection.”

 

He shrugged, closing his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. There was accusation in his voice when he said, “Did you know they were going to do this?”

 

Pansy replied earnestly, “No. I thought they might do something, which was why I warned you. Zabini is out for your blood and they’ll listen to him. He wants you out of the picture entirely.” Careful not to jar him, she sat on the bed and draped the covers back over his chest. “Why haven’t you gone to Pomfrey?”

 

Under Pansy’s ministrations, Draco felt rather choked up of a sudden. He turned his face into the pillow and swallowed hard.

 

“Because this is what I deserve.”

 

Pansy froze. Forcing herself to breathe, she whispered, “You botched things up with Granger. Your father must be furious. Oh, Draco, you think you deserve his disappointment?”

 

That wasn’t it at all. He thought of how devastated Hermione Granger had looked when he had informed her that every private mood she’d shown him had been tattled promptly to his father and barely suppressed a sigh. This was not penance to his father, although he undoubtedly should have been doing that as well. This was atonement to the girl he used to hate.

 

“What else do I deserve, Pans?” he muttered.

 

“You deserve Pomfrey,” she said quite firmly.

 

Glancing around his darkened bedroom, Draco conceded that she was quite possibly right. He wasn’t getting better on his own. Mentally, he was getting worse. Frighteningly worse.

 

“Might need help walking there,” he admitted, reluctantly.

 

It wasn’t a solution Pansy liked, seeing as she had done so well never being caught with Draco. She stared at him, ashen against his sheets and more downtrodden than she had seen him in quite sometime. Draco tried not to notice her pause, thinking quite accidentally that Hermione would never have hesitated.

 

At long last, she nodded and helped him sit up. “What are you going to tell Pomfrey, anyway?”

 

**

 

Draco told Pomfrey he fell down the stairs.

 

She tutted at him in disapproving doubt and honestly, who wouldn’t have noticed that the bruises on his ribs were shaped exactly like boots? He remained adamant in the face of her doubt; scoffed like a true Malfoy at the suggestion that he should really report such violence since things like that weren’t acceptable. Outright refused to speak to McGonagall when Pomfrey summoned her.

 

Unluckily for him, it turned out that he had “brought an infection upon himself” by being too stubborn to see her promptly. Pomfrey administered a foul tasting potion for that that made him gag and burned his stomach; then made him down another to dull the pain in his ribs and jaw. Her offer of Skele-Gro was like a siren’s call but she denied it until the infection was clear.

 

“Not good to have too many potions in you, my dear,” she told him briskly but her smile had been kind.

 

Poor Draco Malfoy, all banged up and with no friends. Pansy Parkinson had been off like a shot once she saw him settled.

 

The potion for pain turned out to be a pleasant surprise. The next few days were spent riding the most marvelous high of his young life. Consciousness ebbed and waned; he had marvelous floating dreams and vividly wonderful hallucinations.

 

He thought once that his mother was there, although he could not be sure given everything. Her hands felt real however, cool against the clammy skin of his forehead and later on firm in his grasp. Possible apparition Narcissa sat in a chair beside his bed perfectly quiet and wore a veil on her hat that he hated whenever he could bring himself to focus.

 

Hated that she was so silent too. He tried to speak to her, calling out “Mother” and who knew what else. She only squeezed his hand harder and shushed him, darting a glance around the infirmary. When she left, her robes swished behind her in such a way that he was nearly positive she wasn’t real.

 

Pansy came once by herself and once with Zabini. He had fought the effects of the drug violently then but his nemesis had done nothing but grin while Pansy hung back, guilty as all hell but watchful. She mouthed an apology when his eyes lighted on her by chance.

 

It was Hermione Granger however who had the misfortune of being there when he woke the morning after Madam Pomfrey had deemed him fit enough not to need anymore of _that_ potion.

 

She sat in the same chair Draco was sure his mother had occupied, curly head bent over a book. He was so surprised at seeing her that he blinked a few times, wondering if he had made up Pomfrey telling him that he was almost better; could have the Skele-Gro soon. And then he felt an embarrassing rush of happiness at the thought that she had forgiven him.

 

“Hi, Hermione,” he greeted, cringing at the hoarseness of his voice.

 

Her head shot up and… well, perhaps he wasn’t as forgiven as he thought. Her lips were drawn and her expression was positively glacial. He noted distantly that it didn’t look like she’d slept in a long time, if the smudges under her eyes were any indication. Shamed by her anger, he dropped his gaze.

 

“I’m not visiting you,” she informed him, putting her best Hogwarts Head Girl tone to good use. “McGonagall suggested I bring you the homework you’ve missed out on. Pomfrey said you’d be awake shortly so I figured I would wait. Don’t think I care about your recovery.”

 

Having made herself perfectly clear, she bent over, lifted a hefty stack of books, and dropped them down near his feet, jarring the bed by accident or on purpose, he couldn’t tell.

 

“Pomfrey also told me that you had a bit of a cut below your eyelid that gave you _quite_ the nasty infection. I do so hope I didn’t scratch you when I hit you.”

 

He snorted, shifting slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. Takes more than a slip of a girl to knock me on my arse for a week.”

 

She smiled smartly. “Two and a half weeks, actually.”

 

“Two and a half? Oh, bloody hell.”

 

Hermione nodded and fiddled with the book she held in her lap. He noticed it was the one from the Manor, Mind Over Magic. Following his gaze, she snapped her hand down quickly over the spine.

 

“Are you still practicing?” he asked, just to be cordial.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Like I’d tell you.” Then, with her voice lowered, “Crabbe and Goyle must have smacked you around harder than I thought. Rather risky to stupefy one’s self.”

 

Draco had nothing to say to that, really. Feeling awkward, he found a piece of lint on his blanket and began to toy idly with it. Resisted the childish urge to flick it at her. “Granger?”

 

She arched an eyebrow, waiting but silent.

 

“Listen, I know you don’t trust me-”

 

A snort.

 

“-but you needn’t feel like you have to study that all by yourself. I’m hardly going to _leave_ you in such a state. You could draw the curtain. We could practice here. That way Pomfrey is close and-”

 

“Oh, stow it, Draco. If this is your form of an apology, I’m not at all interested. I don’t need your help.” Rising, she shoved her book back into her bag. “I don’t need anyone’s help. You’ve done a marvelous job of showing me where trusting you gets me.”

 

“Granger-”

 

“No, Malfoy. Rest up. I’ll see you in class.”

 

That said, she sent him one last disdainful glance, shouldered her bag, and disappeared behind the curtain.

 

**

 

Over the years at Hogwarts, Draco had made watching the Golden Trio somewhat of a habit. Naturally, being the subject of much fame and ridicule himself, he was more than aware that Potter’s pathetic gang of prats had made it somewhat of a habit to watch him as well. Never had Draco watched them with anything resembling concern, and he was quite certain that the feeling was mutual. The closest he’d ever come to watching them with alarm had been before Fourth Year, at the Quidditch World Cup, but he didn’t like to think about what had caused him to warn Granger about the approaching Death Eaters. It was one thing on an ever-growing list of items he did not wish to contemplate.

 

Irregardless of that incident, watching Hermione Granger with-—was _concern_ too strong a word?-—disquiet was a practice Draco didn’t think he was all that great at. She’d caught him twice in class, once in the Great Hall, and three times during their shared class after lunch. Each time, she had returned his gaze with a withering glare.

 

This was good, Draco thought. People didn’t wither at people they were indifferent to. If she was still furious, fine. Perhaps she could be made to come around. At least she hadn’t written him off enough not to bother with at all.

 

Not that he didn’t want to be written off, of course. Get the Mudblood away from him, smooth things over with his father, and all would be bloody peachy in his world again. He just didn’t like people being angry with him and—

 

Oh, the lies.

 

Well, he didn’t _care_ that much.

 

Point being, it was rapidly becoming clear to Draco that Hermione Granger had lied to him that day in the infirmary. _I’m fine_ , was what she had said, and he had never seen anyone be less fine in the whole of his life.

 

Last year, perhaps, he wouldn’t have noted it. Might have shared a snicker with Parkinson over how wan her complexion had become; how dark the bags underneath her eyes were. She had lost weight during the time he had been sick and something about her seemed… not broken, not yet, but incredibly weary. Her steps, when she moved, were slow and shuffled. He didn’t think she was paying attention in class, choosing instead to stare off at some unfixed location as though not all the learning in the world had ever meant a thing to her. Oh, she was trying to keep up a good show for her harebrained Gryffindor companions, but, to him, she looked like a woman marching slowly towards her inevitable doom.

 

Lucius Malfoy would be thrilled, Draco thought with his lips pursed. Who knew the key to bringing Granger down so low was simply to tell her that he was tattling on her; was simply to remove _himself_ from the picture. Oh, he didn’t flatter himself enough to believe that he was the sole thing Granger needed, but he knew—-and had been reminded of late—-what it was like to fancy yourself not completely alone, only to have that illusion ripped away. Despite her better instincts, Granger had come to rely on him for companionship at the very least and he, foul little git that he knew he was, had betrayed her with little more than a second thought. It was enough to make his supper sit heavily in his stomach.

 

Well, she needed to snap out of it at any rate, or she was not going to stand a chance when her attacker unavoidably came for her. More to the point, she wouldn’t stand much of a chance against anyone _before_ then. She wasn’t aware. She wasn’t alert.

 

And Draco Malfoy was not the only one watching her.

 

Zabini, Draco noticed, had kept his gaze trained on Hermione for most of the day. Zabini had always been a smug bastard, but, after getting out of the infirmary, Draco had found him even more unbearable than usual. Zabini considered himself the victor—-he had felled Draco, he had taken over Slytherin, and he was clearly very involved in Hermione Granger’s fate. He looked like the cat that caught the canary.

 

Draco rather hoped he choked on it.

 

Even now, when all the other students were enjoying their suppers, Zabini was watching her. Something in his gaze caused unease in Draco. His gaze was feral, and full of raw, violent hatred. As much as he hated to admit it, it made Draco want to flinch away; made him wish for the days when he could have had Crabbe or Goyle smash the look right off his face.

 

But that thought was too soon and made Draco flinch for entirely different reasons. Gingerly, he poked at his ribs and felt a whole other rush of rage blanket him. Let Zabini try and stop him; he was going to get Hermione Granger back up to fighting snuff and he was going to show that smug fucker what happened when you messed with a Malfoy. He was going to show Crabbe and Goyle and…

 

And Father, a small voice whispered, so deep inside of him that he barely was aware of the thought.

 

The key to the problem lay in figuring out who her attacker was, he reasoned. He knew Hermione had that information-- _obviously_ \--but she more likely than not had no idea of how things were playing out more close to home, at Hogwarts. _He_ did. At one point, he had known Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle intimately well. He felt quite confident that he could guess rather accurately at how they would carry things out, how they would respond to stressors, and what he could not figure out, he hoped that Pansy would be willing to snitch. What he couldn’t puzzle through was who was leading them; who would be behind the ultimate end attack. It was too big of an unknown, the sort that could get Granger and even he himself killed. Draco didn’t like variables. He liked cold hard reason.

 

Granger might despise him with everything in her being but one thing hadn’t changed: somewhere over the course of the year, possibly even before he had found her in the woods, possibly from the moment he’d tried to eliminate Dumbledore, it had become Hermione and Draco against the world.

 

Somehow, he thought he’d gotten the better end of the deal.  
**

 

The lighting in Draco’s rooms was dim. He half thought McGonagall had done it on purpose because of some half-brained idea that he was a Slytherin and therefore liked the dark. His rooms needed at least two more lamps, possibly something overhead and bright. It was damnably hard to work on anything without getting a headache. Even his lighting charms didn’t seem to be helping much.

 

Draco Malfoy was in a foul mood, but that was nothing new and therefore wasn’t even really worth noting. He was frustrated beyond belief and _angry_ with himself, because it was more than clear that the answer to the puzzle of who had raped Hermione should have smacked him over the head hours ago. _Months_ ago! He was starting to question his intelligence and, well, Malfoys should never be made to do that.

 

Swearing, he leaned back on the couch and held up his papers, scrutinizing each word he’d written down with bloodshot eyes. The answer was here somewhere, most likely neatly written out in his own hand, and he was too bloody _daft_ to figure it out. Perhaps Granger would have been better off with the Weasel, at this rate—-disgusting thought.

 

“Who are you?” he snarled.

 

His notes remained silent. Names of Death Eaters stared back up at him, all the names of those he could think of who would be simple enough to resort to rape. He had managed to cross off a few, but those had been obvious choices. Her attacker had to be high up, someone with enough sway to influence the way Zabini was acting. Zabini clearly thought that pleasing this man would ensure favour with Voldemort but _who_?

 

Crabbe and Goyle’s respective fathers quite simply did not have enough power for Zabini to care. Pansy Parkinson’s father was intelligent and high ranking, but like Draco’s own father, he just didn’t believe that Parkinson had it in him to debase a young woman when clever spell work would have sufficed.

 

And what about Rosie? The puzzling loose end. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever that his parents would have employed someone loyal to Potter, but he wasn’t blind enough to suppose they simply might not have known. Afterall, she had been Narcissa’s own governess, and his mother’s bias wouldn’t have shocked him.

 

Either way, Rosie wasn’t entirely in the know. She hadn’t had any idea that Hermione had been raped until he had brought it up. She had managed to guess that Hermione had been stupefied and she had brought that blasted book to help her—-something she had stolen from his mother, whose tastes in reading material were not at all what Draco expected.

 

And what of his mother? How much had she known? What was she telling McGonagall? _Was_ she telling McGonagall anything? And if she was, why? Was it strategy? Was she trying to save herself from Voldemort’s defeat?

 

Was she trying to save _him_?

 

But Mother had a lover, or had had one at some point. A man not as strongly aligned to the Dark Lord as Lucius was. Could this mystery man have made a move against Granger to win over his mother?

 

Even he realized that was a stupid thought. His blasted brain was running him around in circles, and speaking of which:

 

How on earth had Rosie guessed at the attacker’s use of stupefaction? Who was Rosie _really_? She had said things about his mother that it had hurt to hear, but even those were things he didn’t think she should have known. Narcissa Malfoy was an intensely private person and no one should have known those intimate details except, well, Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Was it possible that Rosie and his mother were one and the same? A trick of polyjuice potion? The idea made him suck in a quick breath, but that one at least was plausible.

 

_“She’s proud of you too, Draco. Hermione wouldn’t have made it this far if it wasn’t for you and she won’t make it out without you.”_

 

But no. He didn’t want to think of how his mother felt about him right now. She was just muddying up the picture.

 

It was more important to figure out how his mother had guessed at Hermione being stupefied, and guessed it without any hesitation whatsoever.

 

A dark thought was forming at the back of Draco’s mind, so heavy and ugly that it refused to take shape. He felt a chill rush up and down his body and for one dreadfully confusing second, he could not breathe. Here was the answer, within reach. This horrid blackness hovering just beyond conscious thought. This dreadful _something_ that he could not make himself think.

 

Shaken to the very core, Draco responded in the only way he knew how. Swearing again, he whipped his quill at the wall and buried his head in his hands.

 

“Who are you?” he asked the silence of his room.

 

**

 

“Do you think she’s beautiful?”

 

The question caught Pansy Parkinson off guard, possibly because she was not paying as much attention as she should have been to the young man seated on her left. She wasn’t paying attention to the Quidditch game either, even though it was a Slytherin Gryffindor match and her lack of focus was likely tantamount to treason. She wasn’t even paying much attention to her own Seamus, who she could clearly see surrounded by Gryffindors in the stands. It wouldn’t do to get caught staring at him, and she had trained herself well.

 

She was, in fact, watching Draco, who was sitting by himself a ways away from them. He looked tired and haggard, defeated and utterly frustrated by it. There was something about him today that seemed rather unhinged. He was watching Hermione Granger, seated by Seamus, with unwavering alertness. She thought his blatantness said something about how much he’d been through in the past month. Never before would he have allowed himself to be caught.

 

She jumped a little at the sound of Zabini’s voice, and it took her a moment to realize that he too was watching Hermione Granger, although his eyes were cold and the fervor in his tone seemed different than that displayed by Draco.

 

Squaring her shoulders, she looked at the girl too. “Beautiful?” she questioned, placing her hand on Zabini’s arm and snuggling closer, although both movements revolted her. “She’s rather pretty, I suppose. She’s grown into her teeth and her hair isn’t _that_ terrible.”

 

“She has perfect breasts. Have you noticed? So round and high. I’d love to get my hands on them.”

 

His statement was so utterly inappropriate that it took every bit of training Pansy possessed not to jerk her hand away and slap the calculated sneer right off of Zabini’s face. Inwardly, she shuddered, but she was too good to display that. She made her smile bland and uninterested, even though grimacing seemed like the better option.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” And she really _was_ good because she almost sounded flirtatious. “I’ve seen better.” She shook her shoulders a little, intent on emphasizing her own.

 

Zabini cast her chest a cursory glance and then looked away. He was growing bored with her of late, and she wasn’t entirely certain why. She knew she had him—-he was too smart _not_ to align himself with her family—-but any heat he’d felt for her was rapidly waning. He thought her something of a tease, she knew, and he had been disdainful towards her almost constantly since Christmas. She knew he didn’t know about Draco; she knew he didn’t know about Seamus. Zabini clearly had his mind on other matters.

 

“I bet she’s a real demon in the sack,” he continued, licking his lips. “I’ve heard it’s so. Wonder if Potter and Weasley ever got a go at her.”

 

Pansy blinked. “Together? You wicked boy.”

 

“Wouldn’t put it past her. Gryffindor slut.”

 

And to the infamous Slytherin slut, there was nothing to say to that. Still the desire to hit him, of course, but Pansy was suddenly _afraid_. Zabini was regarding Hermione with barely concealed arousal and Pansy felt dirty witnessing it. Past that though and Zabini was not even looking at Hermione like she was a person, Zabini who had had dozens of classes with her and had even fancied her in Third Year.

 

Distantly, Pansy knew that in her role she should _do_ something about Zabini’s lust, somehow direct it back towards her, lest someone suspect she no longer cared. Her hands, however, would not move and she could not force herself to speak. His attention was absolutely the last thing she wanted. She felt like a coward, but she felt sick too. Felt like warning Hermione only…

 

Feeling small, she glanced at Draco and was relieved to find him still watching the girl. They were all on some sort of precipice, and she couldn’t have said for the life of her how it would all turn out.

 

**

 

The match went to Gryffindor, to the collective surprise of no one. Pansy let Zabini lead her from the stands and back into the school, and tried not to flinch when he took her by the hand. She secretively wanted to bump into Seamus, for even a close up glance at him was bound to make her feel better, bound to at least begin to dissolve the dread that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

 

But it was not Seamus they saw, of course not. It was Hermione Granger walking in front of them, head tilted downwards in a manner entirely unlike herself. Pansy noticed the unconscious sway of the other girl’s hips because Zabini was clearly noticing; was fixated really.

 

“Beautiful everywhere,” he purred in her ear. He was flushed and his hand felt damp in hers.

 

“You’re not making a girl feel very wanted, Blaise,” was what she said back, even though she wanted to kick Hermione in the arse and tell her to walk faster, and away from them. To lift up her head, to go to Malfoy for their friendly little chats or whatever it was they did together, to get _away_ from Zabini.

 

“Always want you,” he replied and, to her absolute horror, slipped his hand inside of her coat to fondle awkwardly at her breast right there in the corridor, with his eyes still on Hermione’s arse. And she watched, all the while feeling like she might vomit, as his other hand reached out and lightly smacked the other girl’s bottom.

 

Pansy expected Hermione to catch him, but Zabini was much too fast. Ever alert, he had timed it with their passing of another corridor, and ducked down it just as Hermione turned her head. Pansy had time to catch the panic in the other girl’s eyes, and thought it was tantamount to her own as Zabini continued to march her out of sight.

 

“Just beautiful,” he reiterated, before clamping his mouth down on Pansy’s and driving her forcefully back against the wall.

 

She was going to cry later and even Seamus wouldn’t be able to make her feel better. Only a few more months until freedom, she thought on a panicked loop, only a few more months of this, of being his whore. She was afraid abruptly for Granger, and it was for her that she pulled Zabini closer and willed the voice in her head that was pleading for her own retreat to _sod off_. This time, she let him pull open her shirt right there in the abandoned corridor and prayed to a god she did not believe in that she was buying Granger time. And then, she simply tried not to think at all, purposely detaching herself from everything.

 

**

 

It was much later when the knock sounded on Draco Malfoy’s door. He was on his couch again, obsessively scanning over his notes for something he might have missed. His Potions homework lay forgotten, buried by this overwhelming project, and the coffee in the cup on the end of the table had grown cold.

 

Growling, he set his papers aside and stalked to the door. He meant to give the person behind it a real talking to before sending them on their way. He was not completely stupid, however, and went to the door with his wand. He opened the door and thrust his wand out in one fast movement and was left blinking in shock when he saw his wand pressing into Granger’s throat.

 

Hermione didn’t look shocked. Hermione looked terrible. She wasn’t crying, but he sensed that she either just had, or was about to start soon. Her chin was tipped up though, and he thought that that at least was good.

 

“Hi,” he said, awkwardly. Moved his wand away and then simply stood, staring at her.

 

Hermione seemed awkward too. “Hello.” Cleared her throat. “May I come in?”

 

He nodded—-whyever not?-—and stepped back, allowing her entrance. She looked at the notes strewn across his table but seemed not to see them. Hesitantly, she walked over to his couch and sat down rather primly. She looked spooked, he thought. Fucking afraid, really.

 

“What’s happened?” he asked.

 

In light of everything, Draco wasn’t expecting an answer. Hermione huffed and looked around herself and everything was _uncomfortable_ and yet so not. He felt the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed of late, but it was blocked by everything else. Hampered. Warily, he walked over to her and sat down on the cushion nearest.

 

“What? Oh, nothing. I’ve just been doing some thinking.” She laughed, a horrid brittle sound, and waved her hand dismissively. “Someone took a grab at my bum in the corridor after Quidditch. Nothing upsetting really. I _have_ had my arse grabbed before.”

 

Draco forced a smile and kept his tone light. “I don’t doubt it.” And then, “Thinking about what?”

 

Hermione broke eye contact and glanced at his table, really seeing it for the first time. He felt oddly embarrassed and thought he might be blushing when she reached out and began to rifle through the papers. He watched her purse her lips as she perused his notes, her face detached and still too pale. He didn’t know what to do—-he couldn’t believe she was in his rooms and didn’t want to spook her off—-and so he did nothing at all. His traitorous heart beat too hard in his chest and, Merlin, it was horrible but he’d _missed_ her.

 

After what felt like forever, she looked up, still clutching his notes in her hands. “I won’t apologize for slapping you.”

 

“I don’t expect it.”

 

“You did a low and awful thing.” To his surprise, there was no hatred in her eyes, only weariness. She looked like she wanted to touch him, to brush his hand, and it was a funny time for that. “But I… _expected_ that, and to be quite honest with you, Draco, it was partly my fault.”

 

Well, she had him there. “What? Your fault? _I_ sent those owls.”

 

“I know,” she shrugged. “I know all of that. I’ve thought about everything lately and, as I can see, you have been too. I have an idea, Draco. A proposition, if you will.”

 

He nodded, waiting. She was all strategy now, but there was a wariness in her that he couldn’t figure out.

 

Hermione cleared her throat. She looked truly awful, but there was something _off_ about her pain. He wanted to say _out with it, haven’t got all day_ but he was afraid of what would happen if he spoke. Instinctively, he knew he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. The urge to flee to his bedroom was strong.

 

“What I was thinking about is how to end it,” she said, slowly and evenly. “How to draw him out. That’s how it’ll end, we all know it. Down to me and him. It’s the _waiting_ , Draco. Something ridiculous happens like someone probably _bumping into_ my arse and I… I fall apart. I think it’s him. I need to face him. I need to end this.”

 

“I know.” He couldn’t handle the waiting either.

 

“I need _you_ ,” she continued. “You have been communicating with your father about my condition. I need you to continue. I need you to tell him what I want you to tell him. I need to control the _when_. I have to know, don’t you see, that I have control over _something_.” Her voice wavered. “I know what I’m asking you to do, and I know your position with Voldemort is… tenuous, at best. All I can offer you is the fact that everyone will think you helped further along Voldemort’s plan for me. There’s nothing for you to lose, Draco. Or at least, that’s how you’ll see it.”

 

That’s how he’d see it? The dark ugly things he couldn’t consciously think were back, hanging around just out of reach, and he felt cold all over. He didn’t want her here anymore, because he knew he was about to find everything out. _Sensed it_.

 

“And you think you can trust me?” he asked, voice low and hushed. He was so piss his pants afraid that he’d startle the truth out of her before he was ready that he could hardly control it. Abruptly, he wanted her gone. Wanted _everything_ gone.

 

Hermine smiled wearily, but it was not a real smile. “You’re all I’ve got, Draco. You’ve been the only thing I’ve had since the beginning. And I won’t apologize for slapping you, but I’ll apologize for everything else. You’ve been put in a terrible position and _that_ is my fault. I’ve never been honest with you, not for one second. Perhaps if you’d known everything, Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t have touched you. But _I_ would have been alone then and I know that’s terribly selfish.”

 

He didn’t want to ask the question. He didn’t want to know anymore. “What is everything, Hermione?” He sounded dangerous.

 

She took a deep shuddering breath and turned inwards on herself, staring sightlessly at her hands. “That night, I saw a light in the Forbidden Forest from my window. I should have gone to McGonagall but I thought it would just be some students, out there on a dare perhaps. I thought I could _handle_ it. I’ve always been rather arrogant like that. _He_ must have known I would come. Either that, or it was just a lucky coincidence that I did go.”

 

Childishly, Draco wanted to cover his ears. Instead, he scooted away from her and tried not to listen—-as though he could do anything but.

 

“I didn’t see him. How do you like that? I was so busy looking for students that I didn’t see him and I didn’t sense him either, not until he was right in front of me. I won’t forget the look on his face for as long as I live, Draco. _Evil_. I told you he was wearing a mask, but I lied to you that night. He wasn’t wearing anything to hide his face and I knew him the moment I saw him. I thought he’d kill me, but instead he… he… well, you know the rest.”

 

Her voice, oddly flat, pitched at the end and she reached forward and caught his hands, even though Draco tried to shy away from her. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it would burst through his ribcage.

 

“Who was _he_ , Hermione?” More stones than he thought he had to ask that question.

 

Her eyes filled with tears, genuine remorseful tears. “I’m so sorry, Draco,” she whispered, moving her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

Blood rushed through his ears and that dark thought was coming, taking shape. A cold sweat broke out on his skin and he knew his hands were shaking in hers. Bile rose in his throat but he _could not_ speak the thing he was on the verge of thinking; could not put into words the rush of blackness he felt coming.

 

He could not speak them, but Hermione could. Clenching his hands so hard he might have felt pain if he’d been paying attention, she maintained eye contact fervently. Two bright spots had risen high on her cheeks, and she was crying in earnest now. Crying for him, he realized distantly.

 

And then she said:

 

“It was your father, Draco. All this time, it’s been your father.”

 

And he couldn’t ignore the lurking darkness anymore.


	11. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, your eyes do not deceive you! I honestly have no intention of abandoning this story, and I appreciate everything that still comes my way because of this story. You guys truly are the best readers!

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Ten  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Draco comes to terms with what Hermione tells him, and chooses a side once and for all.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Malfoy's “victory or extermination” line comes from a Nazi speech, but I can’t find which one.  
Author’s Notes: No, your eyes do not deceive you! I honestly have no intention of abandoning this story, and I appreciate everything that still comes my way because of this story. You guys truly are the best readers!  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

“It's filled with words once spoken by people everywhere  
And I can hear all the whispers that have lived a thousand years  
It just took me being open for them to reach my eager ears  
Now they've reached my eager ears  
And I hope I’ll be ready  
When my light, when my life, divides…”

\- Azure Ray’s “A Thousand Years”

 

With the darkness came peace. It was an odd thing, swallowing Draco and wrapping him in a dull sort of nothingness, an empty kind of paradise.

He was aware of a great number of things, however distantly. The clock on his mantelpiece was ticking louder than he could remember it doing so before. The air in the room was chilly; his curtains were open. The fabric of his sweater felt oddly itchy; the couch was too soft beneath him. Everything felt wrong, clouded by this darkness. Disjointed and off balance.

_Wrong_.

Hermione was beside him, he realized. Furthermore, he was holding her hand. She looked upset, stricken, and, though her mouth was moving, he couldn’t make out the words. Couldn’t hear her. Didn’t want to hear her, not when her hand was squeezing his, not when she was so clearly _waiting_. The darkness folded itself around him, and, for all she was trying to say, the only thing Draco heard was a rushing in his ears.

He would not hear it. Could not hear it. She was babbling gibberish. The protective cloak around him shimmered, and he caught her saying, “I’m so sorry.” He had an odd sick urge to smile at her. To pat her hand because her words were nonsense. And incorrect. A fool could see that. Idiotic things to say. His father—

His _father_ \--

Bile rose in his throat at the exact moment reality came flooding back. Again, everything felt wrong. Disjointed still, and too sharp.

Her words roared in his ears. _All this time it’s been your father._ Bewildered, he looked at his notes, strewn over his table, irrelevant now. Hysterical laughter rose in his throat, but when he spoke, he sounded very calm. Felt very calm. He was a Malfoy, and it was time to remember that.

“That’s absurd,” he informed her, icily. Shook her hand off of his, and glowered at her, reaching for imperious. His stomach heaved, but he didn’t need bloody shock to figure this out. Didn’t need anything to see ugly lies, twisted and spouted out like so much refuse by a person who was so very beneath him. Anger felt hot, felt right.

He knew exactly what was going on, and wasn’t he a blind fool, beforehand. Of course the dirty little Muggle had been lying to him every step of the way, manipulating him so easily it wasn’t even fair. Alienating him from his peers, from his father. Befriend the enemy, a classic trick. The best sort of spy game.

_They’ll trick you, Draco. It is in their nature to lie, to deceive. They’re greedy rats, always remember that. Offer them anything, and they’ll bite the hand that feeds them. The lowest form of vermin, Mudbloods._ His father’s voice, out of nowhere, and oddly reassuring. Lucius Malfoy had never led him astray, never had turned his back on him. He’d been unfailing in his teachings, and so right about her kind. Lying filthy vermin.

And he’d felt _bad_ for her. Self-loathing warred with anger, and combined, they tipped closer towards cold fury.

“It’s hard to swallow, I know,” she was saying, voice rich with pity. He could barely bring himself to look at her, she disgusted him so. “I don’t know how you must be feeling, Draco. I cannot even imagine it, and I am so sorry! If this was my own father… that is to say, if my father—”

But he couldn’t hear that. Rising from the couch, he glowered down at her, frozen to the bone with rage. She paled a little and stopped talking, but she did not shrink back into the couch. She looked stupidly prepared to deal with whatever he had to say to her, not at all impressed by the anger that had to be emanating off him in waves.

“Do not compare your Mudblood father to a Malfoy,” he bit out, a command.

She did flinch then, at the word or at his tone, he couldn’t tell. Opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

“Do not come in here and tell me lies.” His voice was little more than a hiss. “Do not mention my father in the same breath as the slime who did this to you. I cannot stand the sight of you, Mudblood. Remove yourself from my presence before you force me to take extreme action.”

_We must have victory, son. We must remove every one of them from our society, before they pollute its very foundation. Victory or extermination, my boy._

He was a Malfoy. He was on the side of good. He had erred—oh, how he had erred—but enough was enough.

Something flashed in Hermione’s eyes as she rose, but it was gone before he felt particularly inclined to try to read it. Shoulders ramrod straight, she headed for the door. Draco was sure his heart wasn’t beating, was sure he wasn’t breathing. Filth, he reminded himself firmly. Lying filth.

At the door, she hesitated. “I’m going to forgive you for this, Draco,” she murmured, refusing to lower her gaze. “You are reacting out of shock, that’s all. You can come find me when everything makes sense. I’m still sorry that I had to be the one to tell you.”

The door slammed on her parting words before he could fire anything back. Shaking himself hard, he returned to the couch, and methodically began to pile up his notes. He would burn them, and in the morning he would find Zabini. Kiss ass until he was allowed back in, until he was allowed to know the plan, and then he was going to redeem himself in his father’s eyes. Time to do what he always should have done. Time to claim his fucking heritage.

Time to break the Mudblood.

She was nothing but lying scum.

Closing his eyes, he lay down across the soft fabric, still feeling strangely cold. The clock remained ticking obnoxiously loud and his notes stayed on the table, ordered but unburned.

**

On his thirteenth birthday, Lucius Malfoy had taken Draco away from the revellers and let his son into his private study. That in itself was an honour, and Draco recalled hovering, afraid of moving wrong and spoiling the moment. Time alone with his father was precious; to be called privately was an absolute honour.

His father had rolled up the sleeves of his dress robes, had shown Draco the Dark Mark. In a rare moment, he had let his son touch him; had let him run cold fingers along the lines and harshly ugly patterns forever emblazed on Lucius’ arm.

“This is our calling,” Lucius had said. “Our destiny.”

Draco had wanted that so badly—a destiny. Something equal to Potter’s, something better than Potter’s. Lucius’ _our_ had slipped through his lips like sweet heaven.

And then, when Draco had been sure he couldn’t bear any more good news without bawling like a little brat, Lucius had said the best thing of all.

“You’re a man today, son. I’ll be proud to go to battle with you. Proud to stand beside the man you’ve become. You are almost an exact image of me at that age.”

Today, now, the memory cut through Draco like a knife. He pressed his face hard into the couch, and tried to swallow his hurt. It was ridiculous to be upset about the fact that Hermione was lying to him, was ridiculous to imagine that he might miss her, when all was said and done. She was the only one in so long who had—

But no. He knew his father, and knew his father was above such plebeian acts as rape. The elder Malfoy didn’t need physical force, not when he was of above average intelligence and so bloody brilliant with magic that Draco could hardly comprehend it. Draco would _know_ and—

Lies about his father were an unforgivable offence. He’d hexed people for much less. Pulling in a hard sigh that was only slightly watery, Draco wrapped his fingers around his wand and counted to ten. He needed a cool head; needed to find out a way to alert his father of Hermione’s plot, to tell him that—

“You mustn’t tell him I’m telling you this, and please don’t get mad at me! I can’t bear it, Draco.”

Pansy’s voice cut through Draco’s mind so clearly that, for one terrifying second, he was sure she was in the room. Of course not, only him, and only more sodding memories that he wanted no part of. Memories of that same birthday, ironically enough.

Images flashed through his mind lightning fast. Pansy joining him on the balcony, hand like ice in his grasp. An unnatural flush on her usually cool face, an odd panic in her eyes. Trembling, he remembered that. She’d been trembling.

“Your father,” she had said on a hushed whisper, “cannot wait to have me as a daughter-in-law. Oh, Draco, how he looked at me when he said that! Have me, like he meant it.”

Fear in her voice, but he had only thought it natural to be afraid of his father. Respect was garnered that way. _Oh, how he looked at me!_ And Draco had looked too, he recalled that. Had seen her for the first time as something beyond childhood playmate turned someday wife, had seen her on the brink of womanhood, and known what a charmer she’d be. Not a beauty, never Pansy, but an enchantress, of sorts. _Have me, like he meant it_ , and Draco hadn’t thought a damned thing because he’d been floored by it too, floored by that first moment of wanting her. His father’s words clouded by Draco’s desires and—

What had he even said to her? He didn’t remember anger, didn’t remember much past the confusing feelings of budding lust. And he could see what had to have been obvious discomfort, obvious distress at his father’s implications, and still have felt that way for her in that moment? _Almost an exact image of me_. Bile rose in his throat so fast that Draco barely managed to swallow it.

Suddenly, his heart was beating. Suddenly, he was breathing. Panicking. Pansy wouldn’t lie, not about that. And Pansy’s discomfort had been _real_ , which meant—

Which meant—

Which meant someone else did it. Resolved, he ripped his notes off the table and flew through them, looking for something to indicate anything but what Hermione had said, anything but what Pansy had felt, anything but what—

_“When he raped her, he Stupefied her, didn’t he?”_

Rosie’s words, if that was Rosie at all. Too much knowledge of an event she hadn’t known a thing about, too much knowledge for an outsider. What had she said? Something about not being conceived in love?

But surely not, never his own mother, and—

And—

And something else.

_“And she’d be there if you felt you needed help in any way._

Pieces were falling together faster than Draco could keep up with. The room was spinning, and he felt truly and wretchedly ill. Scared, and afraid to move. Hermione’s words thundered through his mind like something he might always have known, and yet he couldn’t believe it. Gagging, he forced himself to stand. Hovered in the centre of the room for a moment, undecided, and then was off like a shot.

He didn’t trust her, not for one second. Didn’t trust his mother either, not really, but then he was only back in Hogwarts because of her, because of her ultimate betrayal of You-Know-Who. He owed her an ounce of trust, and… he had to know.

Had to.  
  
**

Fleeing Hogwarts grounds took longer than Draco had intended, and he was out of breath by the time he was far enough to Apparate. It only occurred to him mid-word that his mother might have changed the wards to block him from entering the Manor, only occurred to him in that last perilous second that she might have betrayed him as fast as her master. And then he was there, appearing in a downstairs broom closet with a flash. A terrible misjudged landing—he was new at this, after all—and he hit the chair waiting for Apparating guests with his hip, tipping it and himself unto the floor.

Panting, he lay against the stones for a moment, trying to catch his bearings. He sensed that he had banged his hip hard, but adrenaline masked it. Masked everything he felt outside of two great all consuming fears.

Firstly, he was going to get off the floor eventually, and he was going to have to open the door. If it remained locked, he would know his mother had barred him, her failure son, from entering the home. Knew he’d be held long enough to cause him worry before a complicated spell he couldn’t quite grasp yet shot him back to where he’d come from. And if the door was locked then… His sigh bordered on a gurgling sob, and shamed filled him. Then the half-truths he suspected, the rumours of her love, would all be lies too.

Secondly… well, that one seemed obvious. He had to know, needed answers like air, and yet his every instinct was screaming for flight. Praying for the inability to enter the Manor, the inability of talking to his mother.

The doorknob turned beneath his hand. He exited into an abandoned stone corridor in the bowels of the Manor, near where the house elves were kept. It was meant to provide an intimating walk upstairs. Luckily for Draco, he ran and saw nothing.

Ugly knowledge accompanied each footfall as he pounded up stairs and down corridors, growing more lit the further up he raced. Inescapable facts, like how his father had been the one to continue to torture Granger. How his father had known things, and—and how his father had abandoned him, left him to die at the hands of the brutes Draco once had called friends. How obsessive his father had always been with Potty and the Gang. Circumstantial evidence wasn’t promising, and that wasn’t even including his mother’s testimony.

Because that he knew with blinding certainty as he rushed to find her. Her failings aside, Draco knew her well enough to know that she would never have sent a servant with sensitive information for McGonagall. Remembered how he and Hermione had worried about polyjuice, and would have laughed at their stupidity if it wouldn’t have tipped him over from repressed hysteria to the real kind.

All it meant was that his mother loved him, and worried about him. Had actually _seen_ him rather than sending sinister letters in a fucking tree. In the Forbidden Forest where—

The door to her bedroom loomed before him. Years of protocol demanded that he knock, but Draco had no time. Heaving on giant gulps of air that never reached his lungs, he shouldered his way in, never considering his mother’s reaction.

He met with the end of her wand. She was saying, “You’re not as good at this as you think, fool. I’ve heard you coming for floors”, but she stopped when she saw just who she was aiming it. Doubt flickered through her eyes—no stranger to polyjuice, his mother—but then her hand shook and her wand disappeared.

“Draco?” she murmured, pressing a hand to her breast.

She was ready for bed, he noticed dully. Distantly beautiful even in her night robes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to see her in such a personal moment. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her hair undone, falling loose down her back. She looked older than he remembered. Lines shadowed her eyes, framed her lips. A lifetime of frowning, he thought with just a touch of hysteria. The sudden urge to cry nearly blindsided him.

Nearly blindsided Narcissa too. He could only imagine what she wanted to ask him, and she did indeed dither, hand fluttering uselessly in the air, not quite reaching out to him. She stared at his face, looking for answers, and paled at what she saw there. And then she did something she hadn’t done in years.

She touched him. Hesitatingly, slowly. Soft fingers rested against his cheek, not quite caressing. She was afraid, he realized. Afraid like he’d been in his father’s study, terrified of rejection. Lip trembling, he leaned into her touch.

Narcissa went too still. Absolutely froze in front of him. Eyes that were the exact shade as his waited, gauged reactions. He looked like her, he realized, and wasn’t he shit for inappropriately timed thoughts. Only, everyone had always said he was Lucius’ younger self. And Draco had never even fucking looked at his own mother.

She was a small woman. Tiny in all ways. He imagined her at his father’s mercy, imagined her Stupefied and terrified and—

And she’d hated her husband so much she’d wanted to destroy his unborn child.

Trembling, Draco choked back a sob. It caught in his throat and came out clenched, wet and warbling. Narcissa flinched back, but then her other hand was framing his face. Her arms were trembling.

When she spoke, there was no hint of pretence. Like she’d imagined he’d put the Rosie connection together a long time ago. He was such a disappointment in so many ways, he thought dumbly.

“She told you.” Her tone was dead, flat.

Staring into his mother’s eyes, Draco waited for her denial, for her impassioned, “Mudbloods lie!” spiel. A slap across the face maybe, because his doubt must have been written all over his face, and one shouldn’t doubt one’s father. He was a fucking awful son. Deserved to be raked across the coals, to be cursed to death, to… to…

Deny it, he thought. Deny it, deny it, deny it.

Silence. Her entire body joined her arms in trembling. Pale skin flushed unusually. Draco was choking, couldn’t breathe again, and he knew he couldn’t hold it together much longer. Not in the face of what he saw. Not in the face of the absolute truth in his mother’s eyes.

The sob tore through his lips unexpectedly, but then his mother was there. He felt her arms clamp around him and clutched at the silky fabric of her robe with embarrassing desperation as his entire world crumbled. She was crying too, he realized distantly, and Narcissa Malfoy simply did not do that. Had never done that, not in front of him. Nothing felt real, and yet, at the same time, it all felt too vivid to be anything but.

Unable to hold him and herself, she guided him to the floor and pulled him into her lap as much as she could with a boy his age. Feeling all of two, he hid his face in her shoulder and let her stroke his hair as agony ripped through him. Let her ground him like an anchor.

“You’re not like him,” she was saying, rocking gently back and forth. “You are me, Draco. You are my son. You are not him. You are _not_ him.”

**

It was a rare and perfect moment of happiness, as far as Pansy Parkinson was concerned; she was usually right about such things. Fingers tickled across her stomach, under her blouse, and lips brushed gently down the line of her neck. Warmth filled her as she felt him behind her, so close that nothing could separate them. Bliss. That was what this was.

Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of sandy coloured hair and a face that was smiling even more broadly than she was. He made a face at her, distorted by her angle, and she laughed before flopping onto her back. He didn’t move, hovering over her still.

“A world without Zabini!” she giggled, surprised at the feeling of being able to. “Do pinch me, Seamus! I cannot believe such a thing is possible!”

He did not smile with her, and she regretted spoiling the moment. Gently, she touched his cheek, running her hand back into his hair. After awhile, he stopped glowering and let his eyes close, sighing at her touch.

“A world without Zabini is entirely possible, love,” he promised, “if you’ll give me five bloody minutes alone with him.”

But five minutes would ruin everything and they both knew it. Sighing, Pansy was put out to realize that she’d somewhat spoiled the moment for herself as well. The thought of Zabini sickened her; the thought of his over-the-top scorn, of the sick glare in his eyes when Granger’s name was mentioned brought her up short. She had to tell Draco. She had to make him see beyond what he already might have seen because—

Because she was sitting on something terrible, she could feel it. Zabini would tell her, she supposed, Zabini with all of his misguiding bragging rights. That kind of mouth would get him killed in the end—or at least she prayed it would. Kisses for secrets, that’s how it had gone thus far, and she shuddered to think what she’d have to do for that.

And she would have to find out, she knew it. A final act of goodness to cement her relationship with Seamus, to prove that she wasn’t Death Eater scum. Saving one third of the Golden Trio had to guarantee points, and besides, Pansy had her suspicions about Granger’s importance to Draco. And Draco’s happiness was almost as important to her as her own, as Seamus’. Much more important than gaining Potty Points.

But how much could she sacrifice?

“Seamus?” she asked, softly.

A cloud crossed his face. Worry, she read. Jealousy perhaps. Resignation.

She could barely make herself say it. “What would you be able to forgive?”

Seamus went still beside her. Heaving a groan, he moved onto his back but not before finding her hand and squeezing it tightly. He really did love her, she thought dismally. More than she deserved.

“Depends.” He tried for a cheeky smirk and failed utterly. “What have you done?”

Pansy couldn’t look at him. Shifting her weight, she stared hard at the ceiling. “Kisses for secrets,” she confessed. “Zabini has a big one, Seamus. I know it. It could help you and it could help Potter. I don’t know what to do! The thought of… of giving more makes me feel ill and I… I…” Couldn’t finish.

Seamus’ silence was ugly, and long enough lasting to scare her. She clung to his hand, convinced that if she let go he’d leave. And rightfully so.

“Fucking sacrifices!” he swore, pounding his other fist into the ground. “I want to kill him. How’s that for stopping any plan? The next time he touches you--”

“But if I have to.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. “If I have to give it _all_.”

But it was Seamus who sounded near tears. She felt his frustration and anger so acutely they were hard to distinguish from her own emotions.

“This could change the course of the war?”

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me just yet. I just know it’s something we need to know, Seamus. Something Harry needs to know.” And she grimaced on his name, thinking only of Draco.

“If I am alone with him, Pans, I will rip him to shreds. Hell, even if I’m not alone, I think I might.” Deadly serious. “Secrecy isn’t worth this shit. Tell your mother, tell them all. I’d rather have to fight them off than have you even think of laying with that piece of—”

“But then we’ll never know, and who knows how things will end up? What if we lose and all because I’ve missed a head’s up? I want to be good enough for you.”

Seamus swore again before running his free hand through his hair. “You already are good enough, love. Too good, by half. But the thought of you as his whore--”

Pansy flinched at the word; felt nauseous at its implications. “Just a little while, Seamus, and then this will all be behind us. Just tell me you’ll love me afterwards. That it won’t matter.”

“It does matter, but not in the way you mean.” He laughed without humour. “I don’t want to tell you I love you because that feels like permission, but you know I do. I love you no matter what this war makes us do. It just makes me so mad that it’s you having to do it.”

Before she could respond, Seamus was there, nudging her cheek with his nose and seeking out her mouth. She tasted urgency, and tried to return it tenfold.

“Seamus?” she asked, when he broke away from her for air.

“I’m afraid to ask what,” he said.

Blushing despite herself, Pansy fiddled with his tie and cleared her throat. “I might not go through with all of that, but if I do… I want you to be first.”

He missed her meaning, she sensed that. Suddenly shy, she found herself incapable of voicing her desire past that. Instead, she wiggled her hips and smiled in a way that she hoped got her point across.

Seamus blinked, and shook his head. “What? No way in hell am I finally going to get to be with you only because of—”

“Because I love you.”

“Because of the wrong reasons,” he returned stubbornly.

But Pansy was shaking her head. Touching his face, she said, “I’d want to, regardless. What if we died tomorrow, Seamus? Everything is so uncertain and about to start, do you know what I mean? What if something happens and I never get to know you like that? I love you, and that’s all that matters. I can’t think of better reasons.”

Seamus said nothing, and Pansy took it as a momentary truce. Worked at the buttons on his shirt with a wicked smile, and let him run his hand along her thing. Not tonight, she thought, but soon. And she loved him so much. Gently, she smoothed away the worried line between his eyes.

“No bad thoughts, please. I’ve found us paradise, remember?”

Snorting, Seamus glanced around. “You’ve found us a storage closet.”

“Yes,” she agreed, not put out in the slightest, “but it’s a very _abandoned_ storage closet, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” he said, laughing genuinely. “There is that.”

And then his mouth was on hers, moving with an urgent desperation and a wish for months from now when storage closets wouldn’t be necessary. When she would be his, and this would all be nothing but a strange nightmare.

Pansy Parkinson let Seamus kiss her, and let herself forget.

**

Draco Malfoy was never going to be able to forget anything.

Lying in his childhood bed, he had never felt further from sleep. He imagined he could hear the blood in his veins, rushing and whooshing along, life ensuring. A rapist’s blood. A rapist’s son.

He could hardly make himself think it, but there was no denying it, he knew that. Dots connected, things added up, and he had never been so sure of something so terrible in his whole life. He told himself it was a mission from Voldemort; not really his father’s own fault, but then… Then Lucius was still taking a sick sort of pleasure in it, his letters indicated that much.

Break the girl. Get her so emotionally low that killing her would be no problem.

In the dark, Draco sniffed. Seemed the coward’s way out. Do something so terrible, and then refuse to even fight her fairly. Seemed like fear, not victory. Good thing Hermione had him on her—

Well, not on her side. Not now. Not when it was his fucking father, whom he could never go against, not really. Save all that brave splitting with your family shit for Pansy; it wasn’t his cup of tea, thanks ever so. The thought of honestly fighting along side a rapist made his skin crawl, but it was an inevitable choice.

Perhaps rape in the face of war wasn’t as bad as—

But then he couldn’t even finish that thought without feeling lower than dirt. Rape was rape, and it was now his family legacy. Draco thought he might be ill.

How was he to look at his father again without vomiting all over Lucius’ pristine robes? How could Draco see him and know what he had done, and do nothing? Siding with him, helping him, had to be almost the same as committing the act himself.

And yet, if he sided with his father, how could he ever face his mother? How could he ever face Hermione?

Groaning, Draco shoved his face down into his pillows, and melodramatically prayed for death to take him before morning.

**

Draco found his mother at the breakfast table, sitting regal before an elaborate spread of food he would never be able to stomach. His eyes ached from crying. His stomach churned, and his head was pounding. At her own seat, Narcissa didn’t look much better. Her eyes were red rimmed and all that regal posture was ruined by an exhaustion he didn’t want to know, but felt as though he already did.

Good morning was a fucking stupid thing to say, and so he said nothing. Pulled his chair out with a loud scrape.

“You’re going to miss class,” was what she said, equally inane. “We’ll have to get you back right away.”

Panic ripped through Draco. Back to Hogwarts. Back to normality, where he had to pretend. All the time pretend. Failed to kill Dumbledore? Never happened. Son of a rapist? Couldn’t be. He felt himself pale, and hated his own weakness. Hated everything about himself, really, but that weakness thing was pretty high up there.

“You have a lot to think about.” And then, before he could roll his eyes at that vast understatement, “I’m sorry this has happened to you. I take the blame for everything.”

But the blame was not Narcissa’s. Anger was back, and anger was familiar.

“I wanted to help Hermione kill her attacker,” he spit out, blind with too much of everything. “Kill him, Mother!”

A brisk nod, and then Narcissa was buttering her toast like they were discussing the weather. Now that the shock had worn off, Narcissa was a better pretender than her son. She’d had years, after all.

“I will not blame you, Draco, no matter whose side you decide to be on.” A deep breath. “You’re my son, and I love you.”

That sparked an impish smile from his mother, like saying the words was the greatest fucking gift ever. They spread warmth through him, and that was unusual. Not entirely unpleasant.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admitted at length.

Side with the rapist? Side with his father? And then he was no better. But siding with her was betraying his father and… and Lucius was his father. A rush of dizziness made him moan. Too much, it was all too much. More than Potter had to bear, he was almost certain. At least Potter Senior had been a decent human being. More than Zabini could begin to imagine. His own burden.

His, and Hermione’s.

Guilt stopped the dizziness in its tracks. Froze Draco cold. His own _father_. She had cried on his shoulder, made her burdens his, and the price was too much. Entirely too goddamned much.

Draco wished his head would explode. Spray guts all over his father’s beautiful dining room. Ta da, this is what your son is good for! Self destruction!

How disgusting that he still wanted to please his father. That he couldn’t truly imagine aligning with Hermione against him.

And she was Hermione again, he noticed. No more Mudblood shit. That was yesterday’s vitriol. He felt uncomfortable thinking about how he’d spoken to her. What he’d accused her of. He had so much to atone for, no matter what way he threw the dice.

His mother’s voice was soft but perfectly controlled. He sensed she’d figured out what he was going to do, even if he hadn’t.

“I’ll be there for you, Draco, when the time comes.”

He wanted to ask his mother what that meant. What she thought he should do. But he knew. Knew where his mother’s allegiance was now. She’d managed to free herself from Lucius at last.

And what if it was the death of her?

Forcing himself to stop thinking, Draco choked back some coffee and pushed around the sausage he didn’t remember putting on his plate.

The father or the girl? Right or wrong? Did he want his mother’s pride, or his father’s? He wished he wasn’t involved, but he felt like he’d been caught in this maelstrom his whole entire life. Felt like—

Narcissa’s hand curled over his.

He had his mother’s pride no matter which way he went. Her pride, and her help.

Always his father’s son. Carefully, and to himself, Draco tried out a new sentence. Draco Malfoy, his mother’s son. Draco Malfoy, just like Narcissa. A mirror image of her, at this age.

Well, they were both on the edge of a fucking precipice seventh year, anyway. Perhaps it was time to jump.

**

A strange calm settled over Draco as he made his way up the winding corridor, past his rooms, and in the direction of Hermione’s. He had not made a decision, had not come even close to it, but his words had been beyond awful. Brutish, even, calling a rape victim a liar. Their tentative truce made his utterance of Mudblood horrific. She’d been there for him all year, and it was too much. If he couldn’t make a decision, he owed her an apology all the same. A farewell, if it came to that. May the best man win.

He knocked on Hermione’s door, eyeing the area around him for her bodyguard Auror. Half expected him to pop out of nowhere, to thrash the living daylights out of him. But the Auror did not know the half of it. Only he did, he and Hermione. Even his mother wasn’t aware of everything they’d shared. Of the countless times he’d broken her trust, proved himself inferior. Of the countless times she’d forgiven him.

If his thoughts were leaning in a particular direction, he pretended not to notice.

Hermione put him through the usual twenty questions before opening her door—he was surprised she opened it at all. Stepping back, she allowed him access to her rooms, eyes scanning his face at the speed of light. He couldn’t meet her gaze. Focused instead on Crookshanks, dozing on the couch. Oblivious and wonderful, the cat.

After a moment, Hermione cleared her throat.

Draco chanced a glance upwards, and wished he hadn’t. Hermione looked scared and uncertain, like she half thought he’d come to finish her off. He remembered her in the snow, wrist slit with that Mark, and robes torn. Remembered how long she’d hid in the bathroom, how afraid she’d been by the sight of him—and rightly so. Tried to imagine what she’d been thinking when it had been he who found her. Surely, she thought death was imminent, found by a Malfoy.

Bleeding on the snow—

“I’m sorry.” It rushed out before he consciously thought it. “For everything. I don’t know how you can stand to face me. I don’t know how I can ever make what he did right. I don’t know how I can--”

And then Hermione was moving, closing the distance between them. He felt her arms loop around his waist, felt her face bury into his shoulders. Stiffening, Draco forced his own arms around her. She felt very warm to him, just then. Soft and vulnerable. Nearly broken by his father. Nearly broken by him, by the Malfoy men acting together.

When he thought of those letters—

Tentatively, Draco rested his cheek on her hair. He could feel her trembling, and spread his fingers wide in an attempt to stop it. Or maybe it was him trembling. Shaking with new anger, with new hate. Was it a decision at all when he looked at the greater picture? At everything Lucius had done to him, to his mother, to this girl right here? Innocent, all three of them, and then.

Perhaps he’d known all along and hadn’t wanted to see.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Hermione said, “Me too” and held him closer. “I don’t blame you, Draco. You are not your father.”

The same words, yet again. He could almost believe them. Could almost feel buoyed by them. Gasping for air, he pushed his hands under her robes until his palms rested against the small of her back, separated by her sweater but closer still. The urge to make everything better was astronomical and astonishing.

Draco Malfoy didn’t condone rape. Not a decision at all, not this time. This time, Draco Malfoy was going to make the right choice. He was going to fix things.

Still, asking the question was harder than he thought. He stopped and started, struggling for words, nearly dying on the final hurdle.

And then, just like that, it was his old life that died on it.

“Tell me,” he asked slowly, “your plan.”

**TBC...** : With a lighter note. :) And soon. Must get story out while inspiration is a-rolling!


	12. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm surprised too!

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Eleven  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Draco and Hermione are granted a brief interlude.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author’s Notes: Yeah, I'm surprised too!  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

"So show a new man your old smile  
Indomitable portrait that hangs in your mind  
Waiting to be unveiled in your darkest time  
So step to the edge  
Move on in the dark  
Let a new man have your old heart..."

\- Azure Ray's Dragonfly

Draco awoke with a pounding headache, which was not exactly surprising. The light filtering in from the crack in his curtains made the back of his eyes throb; truthfully, he felt a little nauseous. Like he’d just come off one hell of a bender, really.

In fact, all of yesterday had that distinct hazy quality to it. Barely resisting the urge to yank his covers over his face, Draco tried to wake up through recapping. Hermione had refused to tell him her plan—“Process things a bit, Draco!”—and he’d pretended to be annoyed by that, but well. What a relief it had been to hear that denial. She’d abandoned him in his highly emotional state, rushing off to classes like the bloody brownnoser she still was, and he had a foggy memory of shuffling along after her, listlessly listening to all of his lectures. He supposed he must have gone for dinner—he didn’t feel gnawing hunger pangs, so he must have eaten—and he did remember showering. Remembered Hermione showing up and forcing him to bed, where he must have slept the sort of sleep reserved only for the truly emotionally exhausted.

Frankly, he felt like shit.

Groaning, he flopped over onto his stomach, coming face to face with a pair of very awake brown eyes. She did not jump back, but he did, scrambling against the sheets. Then he swore. It was much too early for such a jolt.

So, Hermione must have stayed. Just like old times, just like he was truly forgiven after all. Warmth spread over him and stopped the full onslaught of grouchiness. He buried his face in the pillow to avoid looking at her. And in case he had morning breath. Which he was sure he probably didn’t. Too common of an ailment and… blah blah blah… too damned early. Insert familiar Malfoy jargon here.

“Stop looking so happy,” he grumped, getting a mouthful of cotton. “It’s really pissing me off.”

Hermione chortled, elbowing him lightly in the side. He snuck a peek at her, as sneakily as possible, and realized that she really did look happy. It was the most relieved and in control he remembered her seeing in Merlin knew how long. Then he remembered the reasons for that relief—his father’s ultimate betrayal—and felt sick all over again. Groaned as loud as he could one more time, and made it as melodramatic as possible. Only it didn’t really feel melodramatic, not at all.

A warm hand, sleepy and relaxed, settled between his shoulder blades. He meant to flinch at the touch, but he was just too damned lazy. Besides, the light pressure of her fingers felt surprisingly nice. It made him think of the rare moments of niceness they’d shared over the Christmas holidays, where she’d seemed more like a friend than a quasi-enemy. More like a friend than a dreaded responsibility.

As if she was reading his mind, she said, “This is nice. It’s the first time we’ve really hung out since Christmas.”

Draco thought he was still too unaware for the term ‘hanging out’, but he attempted a smile in her direction—achieved a grimace. “Oh, do you mean we were too busy as of late?” he snarked. “That whole getting the shit kicked out of you by your old best friends and finding out your dad’s a rapist gig really has a way of filling up your schedule.”

She made a face at him. “Oh, yes, Malfoy. Do pretend you’re the only one who went through anything over the last couple of weeks. Very charming, very you.” The hand on his back disappeared.

Merlin, he was an arse all of the time. Couldn’t quite make himself say anything, especially anything apologetic, and so he stayed mum, snortling in great gusts of pillow.

“That is a terrible noise you’re making,” was what she primly told him next. “Honestly, you sound like a pig.”

A glare in her direction. “Oink.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but he thought her lips might have quirked up ever so slightly. Then, she was rolling on her side to face him better, all determination. The past was the past, it was written all over her face.

“Is this how you imagined your last year at Hogwarts?”

It was asked so seriously that Draco had to laugh. Pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he shook his head at her. “Yes, of course it was. Things are shaping up quite ideally.”

This time, she did smile. “Aren’t they just? It’s just not very…” A pause, and then, “Draco, would you be terribly put out if I didn’t tell you my plan today?”

Would he be? The question was laughable. He’d managed to convince himself that nothing had really changed until he knew her plan; managed to convince himself that he wasn’t fully decided, even though that was a load of shit, and he knew it. It was only that he was a big fan of repression, and he meant to do so for as long as possible. Just wasn’t ready to hear about how Granger planned to off his father—and he knew that was her end result, no matter how long she held her silence.

Ignorance was bliss. If he’d learned anything over the last hellish months, it was that.

“Why?” he posed, cautiously.

“Because it’s Saturday.” A self-conscious laugh. “Because this is the first day in forever that I haven’t worried about you finding out and despising me. Because perhaps I missed you, just a little. We’ve become good mates, don’t you think?”

Granger missing him was just fucked up, and he meant to tell her so, and would have to, if it didn’t ring so true. If he hadn’t missed her—missed having a friend—so very much himself.

But best chums with Granger? The thought was oddly off-putting, although he couldn’t say precisely why. Or he could say, could say lots of reasons, but none of them were anywhere near right.

Sighing, he said, “Well, what’s the plan? No offence meant, Granger, but being seen in public with you has been detrimental to my health as of late.”

His not-quite-agreement seemed to please her. Propping herself up on her elbows, she positively beamed at him—lonely, it seemed, just like him.

“Do you want to do something Muggle?”

He grimaced before he could stop himself. “Oh, do I! Do you know me at all?”

“Don’t be an idiot, of course I do. I’m not talking over-the-top Muggle, you see. Just something fun.” A dramatic hesitation, during which she made eager eyes at him and generally was annoying. “But in all of the Muggle movies, they did some stupid things their last year. You know, got drunk, snogged people, watched dirty movies, and--”

“Do I know _you_ at all?”

She levelled him The Look. “Do be reasonable, Draco. I don’t mean the dirty movies and the snogging, but I can be fun too. Really, I can! Ron and Harry were always off doing all sorts of wild things. Perhaps you could find us some alcohol and we could have a drink or two. A wild high school send off party of our own! Just like the Muggles do!”

“A drink or two?” he echoed. “Some party. And no snogging? Not sure I’m in.”

Another elbow to the ribs. “Just say you’re in. I don’t give a hoot if you choose to snog the whole entire school, Malfoy.”

Draco pondered this. He was quite sure this was all very out of character for Granger, but he knew the sound of one last showdown before the actual deadly showdown when he heard it. If Granger wanted to get liquored, if Granger wanted to be like some stupid Muggle teenager, before his father swooped in and possibly killed them both, then who was he to stop her? And it had been a pretty shitty year.

“Oh, fine,” he consented, waving a hand dismissively in her direction. “We’ll throw a stupid little party for two people. But I’m warning you, I will be snogging someone.”

Hermione said something that might have been “like anyone would want to snog a ferret” but she was getting out of bed, and her movements muffled her voice. He watched her pull her robes overtop of her pajamas, apparently preparing to return to her own rooms. Her hair was a wild disaster, her cheek was creased with pillow lines, and her movements were the too-fast frenzied sort that he could associate with no one else. Staring at her made him feel warm again, which in turn made him feel idiotic. Bad timing, wrong ideas. He’d be better off trying to convince Pansy to give him one more go than thinking anything vastly inappropriate about Potter’s best friend.

Draco’s best friend.

But he was young, and inappropriate thoughts were hard to silence, even when you were a Malfoy-- _especially_ when you were a Malfoy. She was pretty, undeniably so, in an odd way that he would never have noticed without this prolonged exposure. And surely it was only that prolonged exposure with her and lack of exposure to anyone else that made him flush when she glanced his way unexpectedly.

Hermione saw his blush, he knew it. She went too still, hands hovering over her final button, and gawked at him for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

But Hermione looked perplexed. “You’re always looking at me,” she said, slowly. Clearly trying to make a homework assignment out of him. “At first, it was different but now…”

Draco said, “People always stare at freaks” in a desperate attempt to change the subject, to bring it back to banter, but Hermione wasn’t having it. His stomach flopped in nervous somersaults, and she would not look away. Analyzing him, was what she was doing. Assessing the situation. He thought he might piss his pants. She was such an odd girl, such an infuriatingly different bird from all the rest.

And then she had a Eureka moment. Eyes narrowed, she guessed, “Are you attracted to me, Draco? Even now?”

It was something he had never fully considered; he found himself suddenly equally as perplexed as Hermione. But she was right. He did have a tendency to look—hell, he’d almost kissed her at Christmas. And he was not at all immune to casual touches in the way that she seemed to be, but then. Well. He was a boy, for God’s sake. And a boy used to some form of sexual gratification in the past, even if had never been the full deal, who had recently been extraordinarily cut off. He was pretty sure he could even be attracted to McGonagall if he ever fully ran out of wanking material. That was just life.

And yet—

Realization made him answer honestly. “I suppose so.” He gestured at himself in a way that he hoped said _duh, teenager_ and not _do me now, for my attraction is solely centred upon you_. And then, because he guessed it might bother her, “Are you… does that scare you?”

The _after everything_ hovered between them like its own entity.

Hermione took her time considering this, levelling Draco the whole time with a decidedly unsexy scientific stare. At long last, she shrugged.

“No,” was her slow confession. “Not exactly. It’s just something for me to think about, is all.”

He knew for some reason that she did not mean thinking about the fact that he could jump her at any second, consent granted or not. He guessed it was deeper than that, and somehow less personal. Something to consider that anyone might find her attractive, and not just him. He could deal with that, he supposed. Much better than her thinking he was chasing after her, full of raging lust, which was embarrassing and just not true.

Not really.

Hermione said, “Hmm” and then changed the subject. “Are you up for some practice before our little party?”

That blasted book. He didn’t want to practice. Talking about non-existent lusty feelings seemed better than that. Better always to ignore, to avoid, until—

“Whatever.” He rolled onto his side so that he couldn’t see her. “Just go away for a few hours. I’m not done sleeping.”

There was a snicker near the door. “Don’t dream of me too much, Draco.”

And she was gone before he could respond, slamming the door on her way out. Grumbling to himself, he clamped his eyes shut and vowed to only dream of fluffy clouds and bunnies and perfectly nice things.

**

“Concentrate, Granger!” Draco exclaimed, glowering at her frustrated form.

Perhaps it was the sum of the last few weeks, perhaps it was the sum of years of stress. Perhaps it was nothing but two minds too stubborn to learn from one another, but this Mind Over Magic bullshit was not working. It was a waste of time, a fanciful idea his mother must have thought might help. Only it wasn’t helping. It was only pissing him off.

And Hermione too apparently. Sitting up, she pushed at her temples and glared off at nothing. Defeat was making her angry—even weakened Hermione was not comfortable with failure—and Draco knew that he wasn’t helping.

Bored and irritated, he chucked the book at the bed and crossed his arms. “Something’s not working.”

“Oh really?” she snarked, flipping to the instruction page and reading it again. He was sure he almost had it memorized. Clear your mind, focus your internal magic or whatever, and break free of the spell.

And then, on a very put out sigh, she said, “I can’t clear my mind, that’s all.”

Scowling, Draco grabbed the book from her and reread the passage himself. It was just how he remembered it. He was disgusted. That was exactly how he felt. Nothing but senseless self-help shit. He threw the book away from himself again.

Suggested, “Or maybe it _is_ just sensationalism. Maybe it isn’t you at all.”

Hermione set her jaw and crossed her arms. “Do it again.”

“Say please,” he reprimanded. Then, with a flourish of his wand, “ _Stupefy_!”

Hermione froze almost instantly, collapsing prone on the bed. Draco had been at this long enough to be momentarily inspired by a childish urge to draw a moustache on her, and couldn’t quite suppress his snicker. At least it would pass the time. Idly, he checked the clock on her mantel. Ten seconds. They’d started at ten, moved to fifteen, and now they were doing thirty.

Perhaps it wasn’t long enough to clear her mind, that was all.

“ _Rennervate_!”

She chortled when she came to; then she was glaring at him. “Was that even ten seconds, Draco?”

He didn’t exactly appreciate her tone, but he did appreciate how hard this whole exercise must be on her, and so he bit his tongue.

“As a matter of fact, it was twelve. I only woke you to ask how you felt about doing a whole minute? Give yourself more time to clear that busy little head of yours.”

Panic flashed across her face. He wondered how long she’d been out for before, how long her attacker—no, his father—had forced her motionless. He couldn’t imagine seeing her stupefied and wanting to do _that_. Moustaches were one thing, naturally, but anything else was wrong enough to sit badly. Stealing power like that, taking everything.

Hermione looked at Lucius’ son and said, “Fine. One minute, and not a second longer.”

He cast the spell before she could change her mind.

A minute, it turned out, was an excruciatingly long time. All there was for Draco to do was stare at her, and knowing it was her father gave his worst nightmares a brand new spin. A personal touch. He knew his father, knew how he moved, how he spoke; that whole scene in the Forest was clear to him in a way it had never been before.

Anger had died over night. Today, all Draco felt was a sick heady sort of shame. Revulsion, to be so closely connected to someone capable of such a base act. If his father had merely came upon her and killed her, he could understand that: a seized opportunity. But what his father had done was incomprehensible.

What _he_ could do right now… The trust she had in him was too much entirely. It made him uneasy, her being so comfortable around him, her making him into her one and only source of help. Better if Potter was here, he thought for the millionth time. A simple owl to Four Eyes and Draco would sleep easy.

But he had promised.

The second hand crawled; Draco ended the spell at fifty nine seconds.

Hermione said nothing for a while. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, and her face was perfectly unreadable. He watched the rise and fall of her chest for comfort, afraid to move, to provoke a moment he couldn’t anticipate.

At long last, Hermione sighed. “We mustn’t give up hope,” she whispered. “If anyone can figure this out, it’s me… and you, I suppose. You’re not exactly stupid now, are you? It’s only a matter of time, and we’ll crack this.”

And then her plan could unfold. He guessed it.

Swallowing hard, he asked, “Again?”

A deep steadying breath and, “Yes, please. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Two minutes, if you will. I think you’re right about the time. I felt better there.”

Draco nodded and aimed his wand. Never had he been allowed to hex her quite this much. It was his third year’s fantasy come to life. Only, it didn’t feel like it.

“ _Stupefy!”_

**

“Have you ever thought of curling your hair? You know, not those stupid ringlets, but the big natural kind.”

Pansy, who was doing her best to concentrate on her textbook and not on the lips exploring her neck at steady intervals, grimaced to herself before she could stop it.

She had realized to her delight that Zabini’s obsession with Granger was great enough that it didn’t take a lot of prompting to bring forth. She had kissed him a little upon sneaking into his bed, which had set off the topic of how great he would someday be. She’d let him touch her breasts to assure that she did indeed believe it, and then she’d abandoned him to his breakdown of the pros and cons of the female Hogwarts population. Best to concentrate on her homework, and not push it. Or touch him more than absolutely necessary.

Stealing herself, she shot him her best coy smile and giggled inanely. “Curly hair, Blaise? I would look silly!”

“You would never look silly,” he assured her, smiling in a way that she thought he saw as charming.

Groaning on the inside, Pansy tossed away her books in a way that she _knew_ looked careless and impulsive; rolled to her back and, pulling on his tie, angled him closer.

“You are so amazing, Blaise!” she cooed, batting her eyelashes. “You have power that Draco could only dream of!” Acting this stupid was beyond challenging, she thought, irked with herself.

His eyes darkened and he leaned in, lips a ghost of a whisper against hers. “Does that impress you, Pans?”

She let him kiss her fully, pushing up and into him the way she knew he liked. Went for eager, and not revolted. He responded readily, no doubt pleased that his Ice Queen fiancee was finally warming up. How disappointed he must have been to discover that all of the rumours about her were untrue.

She murmured, “You can’t even know” and hooked her ankle around his leg. He jerked forward, surprised and too ready. Pansy tasted bile.

Zabini smiled a smile she did not like, and caught her hand. She let him pull it to the fly of his trousers, and tried not to gulp audibly.

“Let me tell you something then, Pansy,” he began, rolling his eyes back when she pushed his zipper down. She could do this, she could. “Something that’ll get you beyond hot and bothered.”

**

“We are going to die!”

Draco ignored the exclamation coming from the window behind him, and positioned himself comfortably on the ledge. “We are not, don’t be silly.”

Hermione stuck her head out, looking around ominously. Then she looked down and shot out of Draco’s vision. He rolled his eyes and took his flask out of his pocket.

“You wanted to do something wild and crazy,” he reminded her.

“I didn’t want to do something suicidal!” came the hiss from within. “I’m not going out there.”

“Where’s that Gryffindor courage?” He looked down too, the grounds of Hogwarts miniscule and pathetic beneath his feet. He felt a rush of adrenaline, the same kind he felt when flying. It was how he’d found this place, cruising around aimlessly. A forgotten ledge out of a forgotten window on a never used corridor. It was kind of like heaven.

Hermione sounded like she thought it was hell.

Sighing, he wiggled around and stuck his hand in the window. “The ledge is wide. I’m not going to let you fall. Live a little.”

A snort was his only answer.

Cajoling now, Draco tried, “I didn’t kill you on the broom, remember? We had fun.”

Nothing.

“I’ll tell Potter and Weasley when they come back. Tell them what a yellow bellied coward you are.”

Hermione grumbled something he didn’t catch, but then her hand shot out the window, groping for his. He took it, felt her fingers trembling, and stood, because he was not afraid of heights. Helped her out and down, so that she could sit beside him. Her posture was stiff, her gaze focused somewhere far ahead. She looked like she wanted to kill him.

“I’m not yellow bellied.” Grabbed the flask and took a swig, before choking and spluttering. “Good Christ, Draco, what _is_ this?”

“Whiskey,” he answered, groping for her hand again. Her fingers curled around his, small and trusting. “See, you’re not going to fall.”

“Right. I’m going to get blitzed and hang out on a ledge on top of a bloody castle, but bodily harm won’t be involved.”

Draco shrugged. “So we won’t get blitzed. A swig or two never killed anyone. It just might feel good.”

Hermione took another swig, still grimacing, but said nothing when handing back the flask.

They sat that way for a while in silence, passing the flask back and forth. Draco rejoiced at the feeling of the night breeze, at the calm peace he felt being in a place that was his alone. And hers now too, he supposed.

“I came here that night,” he told her, softly. “To think, before going for Dumbledore.”

Draco's sudden confession surprised him.

Hermione was silent still, but her silence wasn’t accusing. Empathetic, even. Her fingers tightened around his, and he tried his hardest to ignore her earlier questions. Attraction was ridiculous, or at least specific only-for-her attraction. But her hand was soft and warm, and he felt like all of his most terrible thoughts were branded onto his forehead. Like a mistimed look and a pointed question had brought to light things he hadn’t even fully realized. He could smell her shampoo on the breeze.

He was lower than dirt. Just like his father. Not immune to her in the slightest.

But he hadn’t tried anything, had he. Wasn’t even touching her beyond her fingers. And he wouldn’t, he knew, never would and never could without a clear and concise _yes_. And he never thought to be in a position to ask her. It was a comfort.

Her voice was a gentle surprise when she spoke. “I had a spot like that too, at the Burrow. In the trees behind their house. I went there before Ron and Harry left. I had to be alone to come to terms with… with my decision to come back, to hold down the fort, so to speak.”

“Do you have a place like that here?” he asked, genuinely curious.

An odd look crossed Hermione’s face. “I’m different here, Draco.”

And he got that. Whiskey burned down his throat, settling hot in his stomach. He felt pleasant, which was odd given everything. Not happy, but at peace, like the rest of the world didn’t matter here. Like it didn’t exist. Just her and him, stuck in an odd interlude before their world imploded.

He had questions, hundreds of questions, but this was his last night before not knowing. Hermione had been generous granting him a leave at all; she was smart enough to know there wasn’t time for anything more. He wondered momentarily what she planned to do, before resolutely putting it from his mind.

Not tonight. There was no reality here.

Hermione surprised him by nestling closer. He raised an arm and she sidled in with a contended sigh. Even kicked her feet back and forth without a downwards glance. He squeezed her arm for no reason, surprised at how good it felt to have her here, when he was ignoring all outside influences. Crabbe and Goyle would never look here; Zabini didn’t know it existed. Just one night, before everything went to hell.

“Do you remember,” she began suddenly, “when we were wondering how things would have worked out if we’d been friends?”

Draco did. “Yeah. We would have been pretty damned unstoppable. Bloody amazing!”

She giggled. “Tragically you were left with the two most idiotic people in the whole school.” A pause. “Do you feel better now? I mean, you’ve healed normally?”

He nodded, and she smiled up at him, face framed by her ridiculous hair. There was a breeze, but hers did not stir. Too heavy and stuck in curls to move, he supposed. How strange.

And then she said, “It’s nice.” Suddenly, she was blushing so much that he felt her continuation was forced. “I mean, what I asked you earlier today. It's good to know I’m not spoiled. _Ruined_.” She wrinkled her nose at the word.

Draco started in disbelief. “Ruined?”

“For anyone who knows the truth.” Her sigh was watery, but she bravely pushed out a smile.

“You’re not ruined,” he told her, sharper than he’d intended. “What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

His father’s fault. His fault for furthering it on without knowing just how much damage he was doing. But not her own.

Hermione nodded and looked down at her hands, flask and late night drinking excursion entirely forgotten. He watched her wrestle with her thoughts, self loathing stopping any attempts he might have made at comforting her. He’d forgotten the flask too.

“I think I’m attracted to you,” she whispered so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. Her tone was that of someone who had given the manner a great deal of study, who had only come to that conclusion when all other avenues had been exhausted. “I don’t know how to be anymore, do you understand that? It scares me so much.”

Draco was not sure how to respond. He stared hard at her hands, clenching against her skirt, and wished he knew what to say, or what to feel. Her words sparked something inside of him, but he wasn’t sure anymore that that something wasn’t deep and dark and ugly. Wrong.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” was what he said in the end.

She nodded once, hard. And then she was gazing at him, eyes drowning in insecurities. “You could try to kiss me, Draco. Only for a second. It might be okay.”

He hesitated, utterly thrown. Only a week ago, she’d hated his guts. Sure, they’d… bonded before and… well. She’d even kissed him once, but that had been spurned on by so many things. She had wanted to prove it to herself, and it had been the wrong thing to let happen. This, however, felt different. And for some reason, he was scared shitless. For some reason, he wanted to try.

Hermione mistook his silence. Laughing nervously, she pushed at her hair, and said, “It’s okay. I understand.”

As for him, he continued to gawk at her. Watched as her brave smile faltered, as she moved away from him ever so slightly. Her chin tipped up, brave as ever, and he felt her resolve. This wasn’t going to hold her down for long, his supposed rejection. This whole thing, maybe. Hermione Granger was the strongest person he’d ever met. Pride welled up inside of him, misplaced or not.

“You don’t understand shit,” he told her.

And then he leaned forward. He gave her a second to retreat, but she only caught her breath. He touched her cheek first, found it cold in the night air, and pressed his palm against it. For warmth. For a steadying moment of comfort, or something. Hermione took a deep breath. Draco moved.

Her lips were soft under his, so plainly hesitant that it checked him. He applied little pressure, caressing her mouth for only a millisecond before pulling back. Found her hand again. Hermione beamed at him.

“That didn’t frighten me!” she announced, grinning at her small victory. “I told you I trusted you.”

“It was nice,” he allowed, trying not to look at her. He felt idiotic and embarrassed, and too good all over. It was making his skin crawl in an entirely different way.

Hermione nodded at his word choice and scooted closer again. Draco resettled his arm around her shoulders, and finally remembered his flask. A quick sip settled his breathing, and he relaxed against her.

This was okay. This was their magical before-the-fall night. Nothing bad had happened. Everything was okay.

“Nice,” Hermione repeated softly. And then, joking, “Guess you got your kiss after all!”

**

Pansy was waiting in the alcove near Draco’s rooms, very much aware of the Auror near Granger’s, trying to control her knees from knocking. Zabini’s news had taken her breath away, more so than his revolting caresses, more so even than the knowledge that he hadn’t told her everything. She needed to talk to Draco, and needed to talk to him badly. Fear churned through her stomach, and Pansy wasn’t often afraid.

The sound of feet scratching along stone tiles alerted her to his return before he rounded the corner—she was not at all prepared for the sight of Granger at his side, close enough to make Pansy’s head spin. They were not touching—they were not that stupid—but Pansy was not fool enough to miss a change in their attitude, a camaraderie she had never sensed before. She remembered Crabbe and Goyle’s warning; thought it was absolutely on the fucking money.

This was worse than she thought.

Indecision made her hesitate—she could come back later, she could owl him again—but then this was about Granger. The girl deserved to know. Pansy felt no loyalty to her, but Pansy knew what she would want if the situation was reversed. Pansy loved knowledge; Pansy’s game made it essential to know all angles.

Perhaps it wasn’t entirely fair to pop out at them, but that was exactly what she did. Draco stiffened, and Pansy knew him well enough to know that he was plotting a lie, a way out. Granger narrowed her eyes, and Pansy couldn’t help it.

“Out after curfew, Granger?” she asked. “How un-Head Girl like of you.”

Granger snorted. “If either one of us knew anything about being the head girl, Parkinson—”

Then Draco was elbowing Granger into silence and staring Pansy down. She let him read the truth on her face, and saw his eye twitch in response. Saw his lips tighten. There was her boy.

“We need to talk,” she whispered, ignoring Granger as much as she could.

Apparently Granger was in some kind of know, because Draco didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t there. Went so far as to exchange a look with her. Pansy felt her own eyes narrow.

“What’s happened?”

Pansy didn’t miss the urgency in his voice, but she shook her head. “Not now, Draco. I don’t know who will see us here. Meet me at the Owlry in half an hour.”

“No one should be out this late.”

Granger again. Pansy bristled, before realizing that Granger merely meant they wouldn’t be caught. The other girl was staring at Draco hard with an expression Pansy didn’t recognize, and, not for the first time, Pansy wondered what exactly she had missed.

Annoyed despite herself, she crossed her arms and said to Draco only, “Don’t be late. Bring the girl.”

Message delivered and moment passed, Pansy felt her fear begin to mount again as she rushed away, dainty movements silent against the stone. She heard Draco’s door open and close, heard Granger’s not-so-dainty footsteps back to her own rooms, and then Pansy was on the stairs. Headed for the Slytherin common room. Headed for her pretend self.

 

**TBC:** Pansy lets Draco and Hermione in on part of Zabini's secret; Hermione tells Draco her plan.


	13. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Twelve  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Pansy talks, and Draco barters.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

"Am I making something worthwhile out of this place  
Am I making something worthwhile out of this chase  
I am displaced  
I am displaced..."

\- Azure Ray's 'Displaced'

Draco had just long enough to drain the rest of his flask—down his throat, of course; it was too fine of whiskey to be dumped down the sink—and put it away in his trunk before the door to his rooms opened and shut with a slam. All the way from his bedroom, he heard Hermione pacing, up one end of the sitting area and down another. Muttering to herself, although he couldn’t say exactly what about. Not that he couldn’t guess, however.

Sighing, he wondered for half a moment if it was too late to go to bed and forget the whole ridiculous ordeal. Then he remembered the look on Pansy’s face, decided yes it was, and marched to the sitting area to accept his fate.

Hermione rounded on him the second he came into view. He noted absentmindedly that she had her wand out.

“We’re not going,” she informed him, authoritatively. “I don’t care what that Slytherin slut has to say, Malfoy. She’d love to see me dead, and I’m not going to make it easy on her.”

Draco bristled at the insult towards Pansy, and felt strangely miffed at Granger. “Don’t call her a slut,” he snapped. “You do not know her at all, and you cannot possibly begin to even grasp the most basic understanding of what it’s like to be in her shoes.” _To be in mine_ he added silently.

“Oh yes, it must be very difficult,” she agreed, placidly. Too placidly. “All of that wealth, all of that guaranteed social standing, all of the sodding special treatment. It must be very difficult to be Parkinson, saying whatever she wants all of the time, no matter who it hurts. How trying to be the lot of you!”

Hermione was spoiling for a fight; it was more than evident in her posture, the expression on her face. Draco felt the same odd tension coiling within him, and insanely wished that he could get away from her for just one second. Their worlds were so intertwined of late that it was making him feel claustrophobic. Choked. Cut off, even. He couldn’t remember what it had been like to be the Slytherin type she was alluding to, but it must have been sheer heaven.

“Fine,” he told her, stalking to his window. “Stay here. I’ll go down to the Owlry, see what my dearest and bested mate Pansy has to say, and I won’t breathe so much as a word of it to you. That’s how it works, right? My lot, your lot, very different. You may leave my rooms now.”

She harrumphed behind him, loud and put out. It was followed by a long and heavy silence, which pressed unbearably on both of them—or at least on him. He wanted to hit something.

Fucking Zabini, every time he turned around. Always there, always grasping, always wanting what was Draco’s. Well, not this time. This time Draco had the jump on him, or would as soon as he talked to Pansy. Enough was enough. Draco was through losing to that slimy sod, and it was time Zabini remembered just who was the Malfoy.

Through his teeth, Draco hissed, “Is it so much for you to trust me on this? You refuse to tell your own friends anything about this whole mess, so all we’ve got are mine. I’m telling you you can trust Pansy. Is that so hard? She’s more invested in the outcome of all of this than you can know.”

And then it was Hermione sucking in air. “You told her?” Betrayal deadened her tone, and it bothered him that it wasn’t a surprise to her.

Without turning around, he said, “Of course not. I can quite honestly say that Pansy probably doesn’t give a flying fuck about you specifically.”

Her sigh was pure relief; when he turned around, she looked oddly buoyed. Like everything was all right in a world where Pansy didn’t bother about her, and vice versa. It distracted Hermione enough that she didn’t wonder what Pansy’s investment was; this was just as well. Draco would take every reprieve he got, thanks ever so. Because he was just that slippery, just that much of an arse. One more secret on a long list of secrets.

Hermione produced a pile of slippery fabric before he could angst himself to Harry Potter levels. He recognized it at once.

“We’re traveling to the Owlry in style, I see.” And he smiled.

“I was going to come with you from the start,” she protested, fluffing out the Invisibility Cloak. “Of course I was. Come now, then. Not a moment to waste.”

**

The Owlry was deserted when Draco and Hermione arrived. Pulling off the Cloak, Draco wrinkled his nose and tried not to inhale. Disgusting, this bird shit covered building. No wonder no one cavorted here. He was endlessly thankful that his birds did not stay here. How dreadful to have to come to this building on a regular basis.

The stench and the endless hooting didn’t seem to bother Hermione. She seated herself on a suspiciously splattered bench without much ado, and actually looked like she expected him to join her. Nauseating thought.

He was about to make a terribly witty comment about sitting in feces when the door opened and footsteps clicked calmly towards them. Hermione shot him a look that said _couldn’t have stayed under the Cloak for five more minutes_ , but then a hooded figure rounded the corner. Hermione didn’t look relieved in the slightest; Draco found himself immensely so.

“Were you followed?” he asked.

Pansy pulled off her hood, and shook out her hair. “Merlin no, Malfoy. No one cares what I do, as long as I’m in with the right people. Besides, no one would have recognized me.”

Hermione said, “A hood. Of course. How very Slytherin.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, and she glared at the other girl. Draco sighed inwardly. It was much too much to expect them to be civil, it seemed. Years of animosity had ruined any chance of that. Out on a limb, the both of them.

“I only invited her for her own good, Draco,” Pansy protested, tone perfectly freezing. “I don’t see the necessity in hearing her speak.”

An inelegant snort from the shit-covered bench. “Are you telling Draco so he can make me be silent, Pansy? Pray tell me you don’t allow men to have such power over you.”

Cold rage flashed through Pansy’s eyes; Draco was not sure it was the wisest thing to push her. Pansy Parkinson had been underestimated her whole life.

“Pray tell me, Granger. You’re the one allowing Potter to play General for the last seven years.”

“You’re the one whoring herself out for the perfect marriage.”

“Yes perhaps.” She raised an eyebrow. “But at least I have a purpose. From what I’ve heard of you and Weasley--”

“Oh yes, laying down with Weasley and Potter both. I’ve heard that one before. Not terribly original.”

“And your whore arguments are?” A pause. “No man controls me.”

“Oh, I see. The Slytherin lone wolf.” Hermione flashed a bitter grin. “How tragic.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, enough,” snapped Draco, not quite believing he was stopping what could be a bitch fight of epic proportions. “Zabini, remember? I only drug myself down to this hovel to learn when and how I can kill him. In the goriest way, you understand.”

But they were beyond listening to him. He watched them stare one another down, watched the two people he was closer to than anyone else—and how absurd—take measure. And he took their measure too, if only to pass the time.

Physically, they were very different. Pansy had a fragile air to her, as if a wrong move in her direction would take her right out. She’d grown into her pug nose, and was by far the prettier of the two, if one found ice attractive. She’d matured into a perfectly controlled woman, frighteningly calculating and devastatingly manipulative. Pansy fought for Pansy. Always had, always would. Only she had never left him, had she.

On the other hand, Granger was all fire. There was nothing perfectly controlled about her. Sure, she liked to fancy that she played by the rules, and she was likely just as ruthless as Pansy. There would be no sneak attacks from her. Granger, he thought, was all impulse, fuelled by passion and indignant righteousness.

Pansy made her move, having figured her way to something that Draco couldn’t guess.

“Draco is right,” she said, much to his imminent satisfaction. “We’re behaving like children.”

“Just so,” agreed Hermione, not at all reluctantly. Perhaps they’d figured something out through glaring. Women were wretchedly confusing. “Perhaps we can reach a momentary truce.”

Pansy’s smile seemed almost genuine. “Very momentary, I hope.”

A nod of ascent. “Of course.”

And then Pansy was facing Draco again. “I would love for you to kill him, Draco. Very much. Is that terribly wrong of me? The things I had to do for that information…”

She shuddered then, heartfelt and out of character. Draco stepped forward, and touched her shoulder.

“Not…?”

“No,” she breathed, and thank God. “Not yet.”

A moment passed, the quiet awkward and uncomfortable, and yet somehow urgent. Then Pansy surprised Draco. She stepped away from him and went straight for Granger; stooped down so that they were on eye level.

“He means to take you,” she said. “There is some sort of plan, something going on, but I don’t know quite what yet. I only know that he’s been assigned that job. It’s up to him to get you off Hogwarts grounds and deliver you to… well, I can’t imagine he’s taking you anywhere nice.”

“I see,” said Hermione, considering. Then she looked at Draco. “It’s begun, then.”

So it seemed. Biting his lip, Draco pondered this newest tidbit. He had always known Hermione’s attacker—his father, Merlin he must begin to think it—was not done. It was the whole point of the letters, the whole point of breaking her down. Her at—Lucius meant to deliver her to Potter in pieces, a morale blow that the boy might not recover from. And his father or Voldemort or whomever was going to trust that idiot Zabini to do it. It was almost laughable.

“You’re underestimating Zabini,” accused Pansy, no doubt reading the look on Draco’s face. “He wants this in a way you never did, Draco.”

Hermione spoke up. “Any mention of when?”

Draco glanced at her, surprised at the hard look on her face. She didn’t seem frightened; she seemed ready to do battle. He couldn’t get an emotional read on her at all, which he did not like. It made him feel like he was losing power, losing control of the situation.

But then he did not yet know her plan, did he.

Pansy said, “No, but I’ll try to figure that out.”

It was a sacrifice Hermione couldn’t possibly have known, but she stretched out a hand all the same. Touched the other girl’s arm.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, Pansy,” she murmured, “but thank you.”

Pansy seemed shocked by the touch, but she did not withdraw her arm. “Be careful, Granger. He’s utterly obsessed with you. I think he’s half mad. I know he’s dangerous.”

A chill shot through Draco, unexpected and alarming. He felt like he was standing before Dumbledore again, wand in hand. He was going to have to act soon, he could feel it, and he was such a coward that it scared him more than anything had. Not Zabini specifically, never Zabini, but everything. Climaxes alarmed him.

Hoping he sounded it, Draco said, “But then so am I, and perhaps it’s time people remembered that.”

**

In a show of gratitude, Hermione invited Pansy under the Invisibility Cloak, and even allowed Draco to borrow it to walk the other girl down to the Slytherin common room after dropping Hermione off. They made most of the descent in silence, Draco absorbed in his own thoughts, and Pansy seemingly likewise occupied. He took strange heart from her presence; it was as though she was the only thing familiar to him in this new upside-down world he’d landed in.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she admitted when they were getting close, “between you and Granger.”

He started to saying _nothing_ ; let it die on his tongue. “I don’t know either, Pans.”

“You care for her.” An observation, not a question.

He answered it anyway. “Isn’t it disgusting and wrong?”

She thought of Seamus, of course she did. He heard her smile.

“I bet it doesn’t feel that way, does it? I wish you were just being a randy sod, Malfoy. Getting involved with her seems reckless.”

“I’m not involved with her,” he denied, purposely not thinking of a certain recent kiss.

Pansy said nothing, and neither did he. The entrance to the common room loomed before them; he could go no further. Not a Slytherin any longer, not really. Not really anything, when he thought about it. Stuck in the middle and ruthlessly controlled by women. How pathetic.

Before entering, Pansy stopped and faced him. Pressed her palm against his cheek and leaned in so that they were almost embracing. He didn’t bother to stiffen; this was Pansy, and physical intimacy was probably no less foreign to her. He took an odd comfort from her touch, from everything about her.

“I chose Seamus,” she whispered. “If you choose Granger, I’ll… I will more than understand. I’ll be happy, Draco. Sure beats some Pureblood brought in from God knows where by your father, don’t you think? Fancy that. Draco Malfoy, no less a stud than I am a heifer!”

And she was laughing when she ducked out of the Cloak, winking in his general direction before fleeing his comeback line.

**

After dropping off Pansy, Draco took his time going back to his rooms. Instead, he meandered through the corridors, weaving this way and that, completely lost in thought.

What it all came down to was this: he was utterly sick and tired of being kept in the dark. He respected that Hermione had given him a reprieve before telling him her plan, but come on. Enough was enough. He was starting to feel intellectually inferior, like the whole last few months had spun out of his reach, beyond his control. He was tired of being one step behind, one thought too slow.

He was Draco Malfoy. He was frigging smart, see if that wasn’t true. And he could figure this out.

The Invisibility Cloak giving him a sense of security, he wandered past the library; glanced inside at the students up late studying. That would have been him once; would have been Hermione for sure. This needed to end before they both flunked out final year.

So what made sense? Hermione needed him, but to what end exactly? She had always been adamant about that, to the point that she had kept his father’s true proclivities a secret. She had been willing to forgive a lot, and all of that spoke of need.

What, then, was his role? The only thing he’d done was tattle on her emotional state to the worst person imaginable. He couldn’t think what Hermione could do to better her situation, and wished he could control—

Oh, that. Control. That one was blindingly obvious, once he thought of it. She wanted control. Somewhere along the line, she had decided that Lucius coming for her was inevitable. What had she said? A reason for being left alive, something like that. She knew it, of course she did, and… and—

Her plan was so clear he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it sooner. She couldn’t stop it from happening, but she could manipulate the when. She could control when they thought she was broken—long before she actually was, naturally—but only if she had him. Only if she had his fucking letters.

Draco Malfoy. Liaison.

The when gave her the upper hand. He knew she’d have it no other way, no talking her out of it. He himself had been building her up, trying to make her fight back, and all this time, he had been trying to sick her on his own father.

The smartest witch of her generation. She’d be a formidable foe, in her right mind. But could she take his father? Objectively speaking, he recognized that she had faced him before, but never with the kill on her mind.

And that was it, right there. The kill. She needed Draco to manipulate the situation so that she could go in and kill his father. Revenge. Retribution.

But his _father_. Pausing in the corridor, Draco thought a string of foul words, and pondered a question he’d never imagined.

Could he help kill his own father?

**

Hermione was waiting for him, prim and seemingly unshaken, when he returned. Crookshanks was on her lap, placidly gazing about his rooms. He’d missed the fur ball, but he was too distracted for that.

Marching over to her, he announced, “I’ve figured it out. All of it. And I’ll write your damn letters.”

Hermione blinked; then she looked relieved. “You see why, don’t you? It’s the only way.”

He nodded succinctly. Of course it was, with the mess they’d made of everything. Resolve thundered through his being; he had never felt more sure of himself ever before. He was through taking orders, through being led. The time he’d spent lording over Slytherin had been a sham. If she got control, he wanted it too.

“We’re lucky it’s Zabini,” he allowed, watching her. “Are you afraid at all?”

She pondered this. Gazing down at her, he didn’t think she looked it. She’d become Hermione of old, ready to charge into battle. The quivering victim she’d been was either gone or had been temporarily repressed. The end was in her sights, and he thought she looked a little fanatical.

Merlin help his father, the bastard.

“We are lucky,” she agreed. “We’re smarter than him.”

Draco privately agreed with this, but aloud he said, “But it’s not just him. He’s working for my father, who’s working for Voldemort. And we don’t know his when, Hermione. We don’t know in what state he means to take you.”

She started at that, gave it some consideration, and then nodded. “There are a lot of variables. I hope Pansy can uncover more information, but… I’m not afraid, Draco. How odd. I _want_ to do this.”

“You can tell McGonagall,” he tried. “It’s not too late.”

She scoffed at that, looking away from him to gaze at her cat. He watched her pet him, Draco’s stomach in knots. He didn’t know how to deal with this old Hermione. Or new Hermione. He couldn’t remember her ever being quite this reckless.

“Why? So she can delay the inevitable? I can’t look over my shoulder forever.”

It would make her weak; it would wear on her. He understood that. Sighing, he sat down beside her, no longer quite able to look at her. Not for his next question. It was only a small comfort that she seemed able to guess just how much she was asking. He thought again of Dumbledore, of his ultimate failure, and wondered if she ever thought of that too.

“You mean to kill my father.” His tone was flat, lifeless.

Her chin tipped up. “I mean to face down the man who did this to me.”

One in the same. His stomach churned again. “You mean to face down my father.”

Then she was looking at him, eyes damp and face too open. Draco saw nothing but conflict and pain; wondered what she saw on his face. She raised a hand as if to touch him, but let it fall back down to her cat. Looked torn.

“Draco,” she tried. “I think we’ve both changed quite a bit if I care about killing your father!”

He smirked, but didn’t comment.

Hermione heaved a great breath. “It’s too much, isn’t it? Too much to ask. I understand, and I’m willing to not… not do that. If there’s another way. But I--”

“Might have to.”

He didn’t know what else to say. Suddenly felt absurd and ridiculous, although strangely disconnected. It was like they were talking of nothing of consequence at all. It was simply too big to grasp. He preferred detachment, quite frankly, because anything else could break him. Anything else would be too much.

Clearing his throat, he added, “I appreciate the gesture. Of you trying something else first, I mean.”

She nodded and then did touch him, curling her fingers around his. She was clinging, but the expression on her face remained strong. If she wanted to pretend, that was all well and good. So did he.

“Zabini…”

“I’ll watch him,” Draco assured. “He’s just bragging now. It’s probably not all worked out yet. We’ll work something out faster. Pansy will keep an eye out too. It mightn’t kill you to be nice to her in the meantime.”

That earned a snicker. “You must have thought you were going to get quite the show out there in the Owlry. Giant cat fight, lots of hair pulling.”

He was ridiculously happy for the change in conversation. He felt like he had been living bogged down by darkness and ugliness for so long; he was only happy to fake a normal conversation. Or mostly normal.

“Stripped down to your knickers, I hope,” he amended, snickering too. “You and Pansy, rolling around half naked… a man could die happy, I suppose.”

That earned an elbow to his side.

“Honestly, Draco.”

Yes, this was much better. “What? Not like your precious Dream Team wouldn’t want a peek of that. Normal male behaviour, Hermione. Time you accepted it.”

She said, “Disgusting” and stood up, Crookshanks squirming in her arms. She took a few steps backwards, and added, “I have homework. Seems silly to think of, but there you have it. However, I’m afraid to leave you alone with the visual of me fighting Pansy in knickers. Merlin knows what you’ll get up to.”

“Oh,” he leered, “I have a pretty good idea.”

Hermione flushed and hugged her cat closer. “Yes, well. Perhaps I’ll come back later.”

He let his leer grow in both size and smarminess. “Oh, do. These things are always more fun with help.”

**

Come back later she did, although Draco was already in bed at that point. Crossing his arms, he listened to her make her way through the sitting area, extinguishing the lights he’d left on for her as she went. He’d already forsaken the middle of the bed, anticipating her arrival. Trained. Whipped.

_Disgusted_. Not exactly feigning displeasure, he scowled at her when she opened the door to his bedroom.

She smiled at him. “All matters attended to?”

For a moment, he was lost. “Pardon?”

A vague gesture in the general direction of the family jewels. Draco caught up with her line of questioning, and felt himself colour before he could stop it. Damn his fair complexion straight to hell.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he sneered, trying to sound angry and not at all embarrassed. He honestly was a big old prude at heart.

Hermione snickered; the bed dipped when she sat on it. He listened to her settle in with growing irritation, wondering when his bed became hers. Wondering whether it bothered him. Wondered why he was wondering at all, when such things should have been obvious.

“Did you?” he asked.

Her stare was blank. “Did I what?”

“Attend to all matters? It’s only fair that I shouldn’t have to lay here wondering when you might choose to make a move, hungry for a piece of—”

“What?! That’s disgusting. A piece of you.” And she sniffed.

He smiled. “I was going to use more delightful adjectives before my subject, but you know.”

“Oh, Draco, always exaggerating.”

They lapsed into silence then, each pondering sleep. Or that was what Draco was pondering. He felt drained, not that that was anything new, but strangely he was not tired. He could hear her breathing beside him, soft little inhales and exhales; he could smell her shampoo mingling with her soap. He felt entirely too aware of her, which was rather new. His skin felt too tight. Generally, he was uncomfortable all over. Not ready for sleep, not at all. He tried not to actually picture naked wrestling.

Perhaps he should have attended to matters after all.

“May I kiss you goodnight, Hermione?”

The question was out before it was fully formed; if Draco was blushing before, his face was on fire now. What a stupid nancy question. Self loathing tore through him. Now she was going to think he thought of kissing her all day long, which was utterly untrue, and… Oh, bloody buggering hell, let her be sleeping.

But her silence was tellingly loaded. He could practically hear her exploring different avenues, puzzling out her answer. One kiss was an experiment, two was something else entirely. And it had been a long day. A long month. A long fucking _year_.

“Very well,” she answered.

Her voice was too prim, but Draco didn’t notice it. His question and her answer had killed any impulsive momentum that might have added to the experience; instead, it added nothing but awkwardness. She looked too clinical when he scooted in her direction, propping himself up on his elbow.

Dutifully, she closed her eyes, and announced, “I’m ready.”

If the whole matter wasn’t so serious, so hard on her, Draco might have rolled his eyes. Instead, he took care with keeping his mouth closed, his kiss brief. Took great care to kiss her like he would his sodding grandmother.

Hermione cracked open one eye when he was finished. “Surely you can do better than that?”

It seemed like too much to hope for; Draco swooped in before she could change her mind. This time, he caressed her mouth, trying not to overdo it. This time, Hermione kissed him back. He felt her consent like a burst of elation; road some strange high when she pushed her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. Her trust washed over him in waves.

When she opened her mouth to his tentative explorations, it was a whole new kind of bliss. Draco gave up pretending she wasn’t attractive, gave up pretending that he minded this at all. Straddling the line between his family and her for so long had prevented this, had prevented even so much as the thought of it, but choosing had freed him in a way he had never thought of.

_Being_ with Hermione. He didn’t feel revolted, not in the slightest. Perhaps in the morning he might, perhaps if Pansy noticed and he had to suffer through her gloating Malfoy-Likes-A-Mudblood smirk, but not now. Not when he was getting a glimpse of what could have been, what might be, without so many fucking idiotic rules and barriers and—

Now, he kissed her with growing urgency, hands tangled in her hair. He forgot about everything, too caught up in his own thoughts, in the feel of her mouth, her skin. He forgot about everything until his hand grazed her breast and she stiffened in a way that was decidedly not into anything.

Ashamed, he flopped onto his back. Tried to catch his breath. Pushed a hand through his hair, and huffed. Waited for her to slap him.

“Sorry,” he said, after a moment. “It’s… uhh… it’s been awhile.”

“No, no, that’s okay. I was really… err… fine, right up until the end there. Progress, don’t you think?” Hermione sounded out of breath too.

He had stopped, he told himself. Saw—or felt, as it were—the signs, and done something about them. She still trusted him, miracle upon miracle.

Her fingers found his on the sheets. Desire made itself known, but Draco successfully ignored it. Still too soon, poor timing. She could only be made to try out so much at once. He could never accidentally overstep his bounds. Never be what she feared, not in that way. Never be his father.

“I’m glad,” she said after awhile. “Things are quite scary, but I’m glad I’m with you.”

“Glad you’re with someone with half a brain, you mean? That must be quite a new experience for you.”

She thumped him in the side for good measure, but not before a giggle escaped her throat.

“Good night, Malfoy.”

He grunted in response and flopped over, away from her. Tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow he would write her letter. Tomorrow he would try to figure out the when, the where, the how.

Tomorrow, Merlin willing, he would start his Arithmancy paper.

Smirking, he shut his eyes and prepared for sleep.


	14. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Thirteen  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Draco comes into his own with Slytherin, but Hermione has doubts.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

  


“So your heart doesn't know where mine's been  
I'll never let your heart go where mine's been…”

\- Azure Ray’s “I Will Do These Things”

 

They wrote the letter together the next morning, two heads cramped over a single piece of parchment. Hermione couldn’t get the tone right; Draco was much too shocked by what he was doing to be of much help. Misleading his father; lying to his father. Recent events aside, the idea still filled him with a healthy—or unhealthy, depending on perspectives—dose of fear. His hand shook annoyingly as he guided the quill.

“I’m surprised you don’t have to write this in blood,” Hermione dryly observed, after they’d chucked the fourth draft at a growing pile on the floor.

Draco glared at her. “Too soon. That’s not funny.”

In the end, they decided for succinct and to the point, as all of the correspondence between Draco and Lucius had been of late. In the end, Draco knew his father quite possibly could be duped by it—and the idea terrified him.

_Father_ , it began. _Have come to realize error of ways. Realize that was punished accordingly. Realize also that mercy was shown_ \--

“Mercy?” Draco was incredulous. “Maybe that’s what it looked like to you, but to me—”

“Do focus, Draco.”

\-- _Want to help with plan regarding G. Thought was furthering plan by getting closer, but know now how wrong that appears. G. has come to believe in friendship; removing it will cause great pain. G. will be cut off completely. Will report immediately any changes in demeanour. Your grovelling--_

“I would never grovel. I’m crossing that out.”

\-- _Your son, D._

Hermione waited until the owl arrived; watched as Draco attached the message to its leg. He gave it a pet, not quite affectionate, before shooing it off his windowsill. Granger was there in a heartbeat, grabbing for his hand.

And it was done.

Father betrayed in half an hour’s worth of writing. All Draco’s life up in smoke. Watching the owl fly away, Draco was sure he’d never felt more lost in his whole entire life.

**

It felt strange to be back in the Slytherin dungeon, strange but rather like coming home. Draco despised having to wear the Invisibility Cloak; despised also the odd comfort he took from being behind the soft fabric. There had been no out and out attacks on him since—because of—the whole Dumbledore fiasco (because of Hermione was another story entirely); he felt confident guessing that one was not exactly forthcoming. Social ostracizing seemed to be the order of the day, but he still didn’t feel entirely comfortable sneaking around the place he’d once felt the most safe.

And so.

Waiting for someone in the Slytherin common room to get off her lazy arse and let him sneak into the dorms behind her was excruciatingly boring. He’d thought he’d timed it brilliantly—it was morning; therefore, someone must have had to go the Great Hall, or some such thing—but he’d forgotten apparently what indolent slags Slytherins were when no scheming was involved. Sleeping in until the last possible second, good Lord.

He was debating finding another entrance into the girls’ dormitory when the door finally opened, allowing some young thing he didn’t recognize to pop out in a cloud of cloyingly sweet perfume. Holding his breath, he caught the door above her head and slipped in. He was a genius, Draco thought quite modestly, breaching the girls’ dorms. Every young man’s dream, achieved in one fell sweep.

Luckily, he knew where Pansy’s room was. He couldn’t remember whom she roomed with, so that was a risk, but it was a necessary one, all the same. Holding himself close to the wall, Draco pulled the Cloak tight and jogged down the narrow stairs. Looked this way and that before pounding his fist succinctly against her door.

For a moment, there was nothing. Draco was about to knock again when he heard muffled sounds from inside; then the door was open and Pansy stuck her head out, glancing around. He almost laughed when her face puckered with annoyance—the Cloak was only the best thing ever—but she was heading back inside with a speed he had not anticipated, and he had to hustle before the door slammed in his face.

There was no one in her room, unknown roommate long gone off to wherever it was she might go. Back inside, Pansy’s expression relaxed, and she returned to her chair in front of the mirror. Feeling slightly like a voyeur, Draco gave into the urge to watch—after all, it was very rare to see Pansy without any sort of pretence on her part. Even alone, she was eerily reserved; didn’t do anything as silly as dance around for the mirror, or examine herself from all angles, as Draco, the Slytherin stud, might have done. Instead, she went back to doing her hair, which already looked just fine to him.

Draco cleared his throat, and slipped out from under the Cloak.

To say Pansy jumped would be an understatement. The speed at which she whipped around made him snicker, right up until she chucked her hairbrush at his head.

“Holy Merlin, Draco!” she gasped, clutching her chest. “Don’t do that!”

“Morning, Pans,” he greeted, offering back her hairbrush.

She snatched it back with a glare that did not quite meet her eyes. Draco was always so happy to see her it was bordering on ridiculous. After a moment, her glare softened into a smile, snarky though it was.

“Come to try and catch me in my knickers?” she questioned. “Shame on you, Malfoy. But then, you’ve always been a bit of a pervert, haven’t you?”

Draco pretended to be revolted by the idea of a half-naked Pansy and shuddered. “I’ll leave that to Seamus, thanks ever so.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but swivelled in her chair to better see him. “There’s a purpose to this visit, I presume?”

Draco didn’t waste time. Seating himself on Pansy’s bed, he said, “I want back in.”

“To Slytherin?” She snorted. “You’re dreaming.”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not kidding either. I need to be on the inside here, Pans. Surely you have some say.”

Mentally, he crossed his fingers. It was the surest and fastest way to distance himself from Hermione; to have some clout with school happenings. But it would be impossible on his own, he knew. He’d let it go too long, let the divide grow and separate. Enough was enough.

“And if I did?” Up went her eyebrow. “What would I get in return?”

“The joy of helping an old friend?” Draco tried, although he knew there was no use. He wouldn’t have done it—or anything—for free either.

“I want the Cloak. For one night.” She gestured at the balled up fabric beside Draco on the bed. For a fleeting second, her snarky smile turned genuine. “There’s a lot I could do with it, I’m sure you agree.”

That was easier than he’d expected, and so he nodded; tried not to picture exactly what she could get up to with the Cloak. Picturing Potter’s face if he found out that his beloved Cloak was in Slytherin possession almost made Draco beam. “Name the night, and it’s yours.”

Pansy nodded too, and then fell silent, obviously thinking. He let her, trying not to be too on edge.

At long last, she said, “Millicent remembers you’re a Malfoy. I’m sure others do as well. A lot of your problems are of your own doing, you know. Sitting by yourself all the time. Force your way back in, and I think it’ll go fine. Be the old Malfoy. I’ll let you know if anyone is planning on trying anything, but I think if you don’t, they won’t either. I’ll help where I can, but don’t get caught anymore with Granger. It has been awhile since Dumbledore. No one’s forgotten, but they might be willing to forgive.”

Draco winced; Pansy had never been known for pulling punches. Still, that was easier than he’d expected, too. Become his old self, pretend like nothing had happened, and ease his way back in. Do-able. Obviously he and Hermione would have to be more careful, but that had always been a given.

Oh, the look on Zabini’s face was going to priceless.

“You might want to go now,” instructed Pansy, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll be in contact about the Cloak.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said, ducking under it.

Pansy made a face when he disappeared, and shivered a little. “That thing creeps me out,” she admitted. And then, when he was almost at the door, “Make sure to say hello to your little girlfriend for me!”

He closed it with a glare on her giggles.

**

If he was being entirely honest, catching Hermione in her knickers might have been on his to-do list when he burst, relatively unannounced, through his own door. Much to his teenage disappointment, she was fully clothed and waiting on his couch as they had discussed, posture ramrod straight and expression frozen.

“Well?” she asked as he sat down beside her.

Draco meant to answer promptly and informatively. However, he found himself nauseatingly distracted by a stray curl that was currently brushing against the nape of her neck. She was quite pretty, and how odd was it that he had never noticed before. Or perhaps he had, somewhere deep inside. Merlin knew that he’d hardly been indifferent to her, right from the start. Feeling like the worst sort of whipped sod, he tentatively reached forward and nudged the curl back into place.

Hermione coloured almost instantly, flushing right down to the nape of her neck, where he was still staring. Flustered, she giggled and cleared her throat at the same time, producing an odd sounding gurgle. Not very smooth, Draco reflected. He wondered at her experience, wondered what she’d done with Krum and if she’d ever done anything with the Weasel. It made him feel unpleasantly jealous, which was just not on; he told himself he at least was on familiar ground. He _had_ snogged before, thanks ever so, and had taken a trip to at least a few of the bases. Oh, alright, a couple of the bases. But still, this he had done before.

“What’s the plan then?” she persisted, although her voice came out high-pitched and tight. Perfect.

Draco felt a swell of confidence, along with a swell of other things. What inappropriate timing. He felt a strange urge to laugh at himself. _Sorry, love. Meant to help you, really I did. If only our plan wasn’t foiled by this cursed randiness!_

Deciding it was best to just give into it and get it out of the way, Draco leaned in with excruciating slowness. Deciding she’d have enough time to deduce his intentions and tell him to shove off if she felt like it, he scooted closer still and pressed his mouth his against her neck, where the errant curl had been tickling just moments before. She smelled delicious this close up; Draco felt oddly heady.

Taking a great also-not-very-smooth-and-so-very-obvious snuffle, Draco traced his lips up her neck, behind her ear, and into her hairline. This was all very nice, of course, especially when she gave in just a little and tilted her head. Especially when he felt her hand fall to rest on his thigh.

Control yourself, old boy, he thought a touch desperately. Wouldn’t do to spill himself in his trousers over this little bit of nothing. How very embarrassing. How very humiliating.

“I’m going to be terrible to you from here on out,” he admitted, fighting to get a grip on the situation.

“I’d expected as much,” she admitted, but didn’t move away.

“It’s going to be like it was before. I’m going to say things.” His traitorous hand found her cheek; he couldn’t tear himself away from her neck. “You’ll have to take it. More, you’ll have to give into it.”

“I promise not to react.”

Draco snickered, and angled her face closer to his. “I’d like to see you hold to that one.”

He’d meant to kiss her in the smarmiest manner possible, but Hermione looked away and fought to shove him off, although her resistance was teasing and not the result of real panic—he didn’t think. Still, he scooted backwards, hands held up in surrender.

Primly, Hermione folded her hands in her lap and stared him down. Too bad she was still rosy.

“I won’t react at the time, but I will hex you later, Malfoy. I don’t like--”

“Yes, yes of course. You can try to hex me all you want.” Rolled his eyes. “We’ll have to be careful. I won’t come to your rooms anymore and you--”

“Will be careful too.” She huffed. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Not at all.” He smiled and stood. “Out with you then. I must prepare.”

He gestured grandly at the door and Hermione, snickering, got up and smoothed her skirt.

“You have to prepare to be a jerk? And here all this time I thought you were just naturally good at it.”

Perhaps he hadn’t managed to kiss her smarmily, but he could still offer a smarmy smirk. “You’re right. I don’t have to prepare at all.” That said, he made a big show of adjusting himself and actually managed not to laugh.

Hermione didn’t look all that horrified, which was a little disappointing. She was entirely too used to him, he thought with no small amount of alarm. Punched his arm when she walked by.

“Do hurry with that, Draco,” she instructed, eyebrow raised. “Breakfast’s served in ten minutes.”

**

Two days later, Draco made his move.

Draco told himself that it was not fear he felt as he made his way into the Great Hall. Still, his stomach pitched as he walked towards the Slytherin table—God help him, he really was a coward after all. Memories of Crabbe and Goyle’s fists were giving him a mental pummelling, and the feel of Hermione’s eyes from across the room added so much pressure that he wasn’t sure he could do it—that he wasn’t going to cave under it. Zabini held the power, and no amount of loathing him could change that. One little word from Zabini’s lips could cause Draco untold amounts of pain and—

It was Pansy Parkinson who made eye contact first. She was sitting so close to Zabini that she was almost in his lap; Zabini was staring at the Gryffindor table. Draco saw red, which might have been enough on its own, but then Pansy was nodding ever so slightly; he saw encouragement behind the indifference in her eyes.

Right then. He could do this. Hoping he looked calm on the outside, he strolled past his normal seat, shot Millicent the patented Malfoy smile, and seated himself right beside Pansy.

For a moment, there was silence. The force of everyone’s gaze smacked into him, but Draco was beginning to remember himself. He didn’t look at any of them; was entirely indifferent, even as his heart threatened to pound out of his ribcage. Mentally, he noted where Crabbe and Goyle were, should they change their mind about lacklustre gaping and decide to give him the pounding of his life—for the second time. Placidly, Draco reached for a scone.

It was Zabini who came to life first, no surprise there. Fixing Draco with the full fury of his stare, he asked, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Zabini sounded thrown, which was good. As coolly as possible, Draco replied, “Having a scone. What does it look like?”

“That’s Nott’s seat,” said Zabini.

Draco pretended surprise, but was careful not to overdo it. Zabini had yet to actually do anything, but Draco could sense it was only moments away. And yet, the look in his eyes was so refreshing. The underlings rebel, thought Draco traitorously. As though he was ever an underling, perish the thought. And yet—

Eyebrow arched, he returned, “Funny, Zabini, but I believe you’re in mine.”

Zabini went for his wand, which was refreshing and, quite honestly, a pure delight. Stupid move to hex Draco here, with so many witnesses. Apparently, he realized this too, which was too bad. Draco would have loved to have a showdown, here and now. He used to be better at all that than Zabini, and wiping the floor with him would have felt so fucking good, so unbelievably—

“Relax, you two,” chastised Pansy, catching Zabini’s wand hand. It made Draco’s skin crawl to see her bat her eyes at him; to hear her tone so smooth and silky. “Let him sit wherever he wants, Zabini. Malfoy’s better company than Nott. He’s too much of a coward to do anything more than sit. He’s never been much for acting. All bark no bite. You know that.”

That was hitting a bit below the belt, Draco thought, but it seemed to ease Zabini momentarily. In fact, the other Slytherin had the nerve to smirk.

“You’re right, darling. He’s a coward, and a blood traitor on top of it.”

That almost made Draco gag on his scone, and it absolutely chafed that there was some accuracy to the statement. He reminded himself that all was going according to plan; that the plan would not be furthered by punching Zabini right in the face.

Right then.

“A blood traitor,” Draco said, stretching the phrase, luxuriating over it long enough for Zabini’s gaze to dart to Hermione. Draco was above violence, honestly he was. Suppressing a rather caveman-like urge to kill kill kill, he continued, “I suppose, in the strictest of senses. Tell me though, Zabini. Have you never wondered what it would be look to dip your wick in Mudblood quim?”

Zabini paled a little, while Draco held a mental victory party. It was cut short however by the expression on Zabini’s face as his gaze once again darted to Hermione. The bit of scone he’d managed to eat rolled in Draco’s stomach. It was a shame about the no punching rule, a shame about having to wait for Hermione’s plan to pan out. How he’d love to plant him a facer, to shame him before all of Hogwarts, to—

“Oh, Draco, you didn’t.” Millicent now, voice excited with the scandal of it all. “I heard they’ve got teeth down there.”

Zabini was pointedly ignoring him, but a fool would have realized his interest in the conversation. Draco let the moment stretch, and did not look at Hermione. This was necessary, of course, besmirching her good name. Explaining everything of late in a manner that could be accepted by his House. If he wanted back in, she was his biggest obstacle—he knew she knew this. Still, he felt lower than dirt spreading such gossip.

“Nonsense,” he said, impressed by his cavalier tone, despite himself. He really was the master. “She was rather boring, actually. If it wasn’t for the dirty thrill of the whole thing…” He shrugged. “It was all delightfully wrong, but it did give me something to do to pass the time while being shunned. Not sure I deserved to practically be killed for it…”

Crabbe and Goyle had the sense to direct their gazes elsewhere; Zabini suddenly was staring at him again.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Not Granger. Bitch is too—”

“Much of a cold fish? Oh, honestly, Zabini. She’s as much of a slag as anyone has ever said, she’s just good at hiding it.”

The lie tasted foul, and he actually felt a completely new surge of guilt. He thought of how she blushed and coloured and giggled like the inexperienced thing she was, and if it wasn’t so important that Zabini believe him, he would have looked away. Would have taken it all back, would have—

“I always knew it,” said Pansy with a nod. “No class in Gryffindor girls.”

Zabini said nothing, and didn’t look Draco’s way. He could feel the tension rolling off him in waves; knew a confrontation was coming. Bring it on, he thought, forcing himself to take another bite and act like a normal person at breakfast. Draco would be waiting.

As it was, Zabini only waited until after most of the Hall had finished eating; until most of the Slytherins had cleared out. Draco was in the process of rising when Zabini beat him to it.

“Listen to me, Malfoy,” Zabini warned, crowding in too close. His fingers curled around Draco’s arms, pressing almost painfully. Draco pretended boredom. “You can sit wherever the fuck you want, but if you make one wrong move, I’ll end you. After how much you’ve fucked everything up, I don’t even think your father would hold it against me.”

Despite everything he knew to be true about his father, Draco had to fight not to wince. It was the truth the matter—or it would be—in ways Zabini didn’t even know. His father would hate him, would be shamed by him, and no matter how much Draco was shamed right back, it was still going to sting.

But bugger him if he ever let Zabini know. It was almost worth dying for, the pride in it. And so.

“As you should,” he agreed, shaking off Zabini’s hand. He let his housemate glare at him for a bit, counting down in his head. When it looked like Zabini thought he’d made his point, Draco leaned in. “I’ve had it all, you see. It bores me now, and I’ve no interest in getting it back. Everything you have, Zabini, everything. Your seat, your girlfriend, your friends, your plots… _everything_. Enjoy my sloppy seconds.”

That said, he backed off slowly. Zabini stayed where he was, watching Draco’s retreat. When he was a few steps away, he called, “One day soon, Malfoy. You and me.”

Draco smirked. “Oh, it doesn’t have to come to that. I mean it. It’s all yours now. Do with it what you will.” He gestured towards the empty Gryffindor table. “Even her, Zabini. I’m done.”

That said, Draco turned around and stalked out before he could see the sickening look on Zabini’s face as he contemplated Hermione.

Hermione was near the door when he was leaving, apparently organizing her books. She shot him a look that was appropriately downtrodden; Draco could feel Zabini’s eyes on his back. It was easy enough; it was opportunity striking. Leaning in, he nudged her with his shoulder, hard enough to send her books flying. He saw the beginnings of a glare, a gleaming of the old Granger; then she bit her lip, and looked down.

“Oops,” he said, shooting her a cold smile.

Then, he left the Great Hall, neatly stepping over the mess he’d created; hoped to hell that he got his day with Zabini sooner than later.

**

That night, Hermione did not come to his rooms. He waited for a while before turning in, sitting on the couch like a great big loser. It was strange without her, which was worrying; lonely without anyone to talk to. Although he had never considered himself particularly social, he’d grown accustomed to the company; he didn’t feel like being alone.

In his rooms, his bed felt too big, too empty. He lay in the middle, which was odd, and had a hard time falling asleep without gentle banter, without the sound of her breathing. It was quite possibly the most pathetic moment of his life, but there it was. Draco Malfoy was all by himself, and there was no other way it could be.

Resting his hand on the empty pillow beside him, he drifted off into a fitful sleep; dreamed he was once again the king of Slytherin, the most feared and respected young man in all of Hogwarts. His father was there, visiting him. Lucius’ face beamed with pride, and he said _you’ve made the right choice. Mudbloods lie, son. They’re all lying scum, and it’s time you learned. Welcome back, my boy._

**

All in all, his plan was progressing quite nicely.

It only took three days and a bit of charming to persuade Millicent to walk with him to class; only took a few easy words to have her smiling up at him as they strolled. Someone had clearly realized the spot for Mrs. Malfoy was available, nauseating thought that it was, and if he had to exploit it, so be it.

Still, it was nice to feel the eyes of younger Slytherins on him as he walked, nice to feel that old power. It would be so simple, he thought, to go back to it; to ease into his old ways. He could be that Malfoy again over night, as if nothing had ever happened. Sure, everyone would remember the Dumbledore fiasco, but he could put fear back in their hearts. He could reclaim his spot, if he wanted. He could have it all back.

Pansy was waiting for him outside of Ancient Runes. She raised a brow at the sight of Millicent, but said nothing while the other girl bumbled her way through a goodbye, promising Draco to save him a seat at dinner. Joy upon joys. Behind Millicent’s back, Pansy rolled her eyes.

“I’ve been talking you up for two days, Draco,” Pansy said, when the other girl was out of earshot. “You’re lucky Millicent’s been panting after you for years. Zabini’s ready to kill, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Draco, smiling genuinely. The other boy was clearly uncomfortable; clearly squirming in his ill-gotten Great Hall seat. He had been civil to Draco, excruciatingly so, but Draco had a sixth sense for things like this; Zabini was out for blood, and it truly was only a matter of time. Feeling his heart quicken with anticipation, he held the door for Pansy and let her in first.

Hermione didn’t look up as they made their way past her seat. Draco had forgotten how easy it all was; how brilliantly simple it was to ferret out opportunity, and strike. Her essay, beautifully written and no doubt painfully organized, sat right on the edge of the table. It wasn’t much work pulling out his wand; making sure no one was looking, he muttered a quick spell, and felt the weight in his own bag increase. A spell performed successfully.

Nudging Pansy, he said, “Look at this, Pans. Someone’s been studying ahead.”

Pansy’s smile turned into a chilly smirk as she leaned in close enough to see Hermione’s paper. Hermione looked up, met Draco’s gaze. Her own look was pleading, and he tried to look reassuring in the sneakiest way possible. It felt strangely nice to be close to her again; under different circumstances, he might have told her he missed her.

“Interpreting Dialects,” Pansy read, voice mocking. “How do you suppose she’d like to interpret it all over again?”

“What an excellent idea, Pansy,” Draco conceded. Hermione’s eyes widened, the pleas of earlier fading into out and out protest. This one was going to hurt, he knew; hoped she trusted him enough to see it through.

Withdrawing his wand, he aimed it at her papers and muttered another spell. With a pop, the words on Hermione’s page twisted and combined into an incomprehensible mess. It would take hours-- _days_ \--to sort out again. Hermione’s breath hitched; she grabbed up her papers with visible distress. Behind them, Draco heard the other Slytherins snickering. Perfect.

“Guess someone won’t be top of the class this year,” snickered Draco, trying to avoid eye contact. Two perfect red patches appeared on Hermione’s cheeks. Don’t say anything, he begged silently. Go with it.

There was a moment where he didn’t think she would; a moment where he thought she might fight back. Then, she looked away, cheeks still rosy and shoulders slumped. It bothered Draco seeing her easy defeat; it went against everything he’d fought for all year. He felt low and strangely guilty, even with the added weight in his bag. Even knowing it was all a sham. She was too good for this, and always had been.

It took a supreme amount of effort to chortle as he walked away, as he joined Pansy near the front of the room. It was somewhere he should have sat all along; it was his rightful place. Still, everything felt off and out of sorts. Wrong.

As though she sensed Draco’s dilemma, Pansy elbowed him and leaned in to whisper a distraction in his ear. “I’d like the Cloak tonight, if you please.”

He was too aware of Hermione behind him; the look on her face seemed branded in his memory. Trying to buck up, he said, “Certainly. I still have it.”

Pansy nodded. “Good. Bring it down to my room after dinner. I’ll meet you in the common room. It’ll be okay now for you to come down, just don’t overstay your welcome.”

He hoped Hermione would come tonight; hoped it would all be over soon.

“As if I’d do that,” he assured.

Then the professor was calling their class to order. He withdrew his own paper; told himself that he was just giving Hermione what everyone in Slytherin thought she deserved.

**

“Did you see the look on his face?” Zabini growled, pushing his hands through his hair as he paced through his bedroom. “Who does he think he is, coming down here? Sitting at our fucking table? He’s a traitor. He’s scum.”

From the bed, Pansy watched him walk back and forth; watched black thunderclouds roll across his face. She hoped Draco knew what he was getting into; even though she’d put money on Malfoy, Zabini was not entirely going to be an easy defeat. He wanted this is in a way Draco never had, in a way that scared Pansy.

“They chose me, Pansy,” he stated, stopping his pacing to fix her with the force of his glare. “Malfoy can’t worm his way back in here and steal this back. Voldemort chose _me_. Malfoy’s own father came to me. He knows his son is weak—a _coward_. A blood traitor.”

Taking advantage of his momentary stillness, Pansy leaned forward and caught his arm. Pulled him towards her so that he had to sit on the bed. After a moment of silent fury, he lay down beside her, glaring up at the canopy. Unsure what to do, Pansy waited.

“He laid with her,” Zabini whispered, his voice a low hiss. “She was going to be all mine.”

His tone chilled her. Trying not to show it, she murmured, “Malfoy always takes what he wants, Zabini, but he’s done with her. Everything can progress as planned, darling. You’ll win in the end, you’ll see. Whatever Malfoy’s planning, he’s always been short-sighted.”

Zabini’s silence was loaded. Feeling rather desperate, Pansy snuggled closer and found what she hoped was a beguiling smile. “You have me, Zabini. _I_ chose you. My mother chose Malfoy. I never wanted that. I never wanted him.”

“Good to know someone has some taste,” he huffed, but he turned to stare at her, and she saw his softening. “Did you really want me more?”

“Oh, very much so,” murmured Pansy. “For years. It was torture being given to Malfoy like that. I always knew who the real man was.”

That seemed to ease him a little. “Still, I’m going to enjoy killing him, and getting to see the look on her when I'm done with her.”

Zabini was positively thick, Pansy thought, telling her this. Was she supposed to be moved by his rabid obsession with Granger? Proud of it? As for him killing Malfoy, she didn’t even like to contemplate it. If Lucius had gone to him, things must have been more serious than she thought. Feeling on the outside always bothered her; she didn’t like knowing halves of everything. Couldn’t properly plot that way; couldn’t possibly find her way out. She had to shut him up; couldn’t handle hearing another word. If he took Malfoy from her…

Swallowing, she leaned on her elbow and traced her finger along Zabini’s lips.

“You’re very angry,” she purred, rubbing her leg against his. “I love it when you’re angry.”

“What a naughty girl you are,” he returned, voice thick with approval. “I can’t wait to have you.”

After killing Malfoy, after having Granger. Pansy felt disgusted. She wasn’t sure she’d ever loathed anyone more.

“And soon you shall,” she agreed, tugging him until he rolled on top of her. His weight was suffocating; the smell of his cologne made her want to gag. Still, she had to keep him distracted until Malfoy could properly organized. “Perhaps a sample now?”

Then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding. She let him nudge her legs open with his knee, let his hand force its way under her blouse; let him guide hers to the fly on his trousers.

“Touch me,” he encouraged, grinding into her palm.

Feeling the bile rise in her throat, Pansy thought of the Cloak in her room; wanted to cry with the unfairness of it all. _Whore_ she thought. At least what they had always snickered about Granger wasn’t true; every rumour about Pansy was. She’d let Zabini touch her for the sake of manipulation, because she’d had something to gain. Merlin, she hated herself so much it hurt.

Taking him into her hand, she choked back a sob and said, “You’re more of a man than he ever will be. So powerful, darling. So smart.”

Seamus deserved so much better than used goods, and that was exactly what she was.

**

Hermione was indeed in Draco’s rooms when he returned from dropping off Pansy’s end of the bargain, cursing himself for leaving her alone with Zabini. So many games, so much scheming—he was mentally exhausted, and just fed up.

The sight of her waiting sent a refreshing rush of pleasure through him; he was smiling at her before he could stop it. Hermione didn’t smile back. In fact, she didn’t look even remotely happy. Angry, was what she looked.

“You are such an asshole, Malfoy,” she exclaimed, once the door was closed. “Tripping me at breakfast, siccing that bitch Millicent on me in the corridor, and scrambling my paper! You ruined my homework! I’ll be working on that until next year, you bloody—”

“Zabini was looking in the Great Hall,” Draco protested, “and that hex from Millicent was nothing. She’s never been good at that sort of thing. And as for your paper…”

Not wanting to get close to her without knowing where her wand was, Draco stayed near the wall as he walked to his bag. Shuffling inside, he pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to her.

“I took the liberty of spelling a copy,” he stated.

Hermione snatched it from his hands, glaring as she flipped through the pages.

“I’m sorry about the rest, but we agreed…”

Thinking she was too busy with her beloved homework to kill him right then, he risked sitting beside her. She stiffened, and wouldn’t look at him.

“It has to be this way, Hermione,” he repeated, feeling a little like he was pleading—begging, and how un-Malfoy. He tried to take her hand, to reassure her, but she pulled it back and leaned away from him. Feeling uncharacteristically unnerved, Draco moved closer.

“Stay back,” Hermione ordered, pushing at him. To his horror, her voice wobbled. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to be touched right now.”

“Hermione, I didn’t mean any of it,” he tried, following her instructions even though he desperately wanted to touch her. He failed at comfort, failed at all of this. Failed at everything.

“I know.” She nodded. “It’s just…”

And then she was crying, completely out of nowhere. On a rush of worry, Draco reached in her direction; froze before actually touching her. Panic welled within him; he had no idea what to do.

“Did you like it?” she asked, rubbing her nose with her hand. She let her tears fall unchecked. “For even a minute? At first, I didn’t think you could.” A pause for a hiccup. “I thought you were different now, but then I realized what we were really doing, and how easy it would be for you… how tempting…”

She was crying in earnest now, body wracking sobs. Draco felt fidgety and terrible; he _had_ thought about it, hadn’t he. Everything she’d said held a grain of truth. He’d sat with the Slytherins and liked it; he’d walked into the common room tonight and knew where he was supposed to belong. All of the horrible ideas floating through her mind weren’t exactly _wrong_ , and yet…

And yet.

He’d hated the look on her face, hated seeing her dejected. Hating her _taking_ it all. He’d thought it had been for show, but perhaps it hadn’t. It was too late to look back, too late for anything. He was not Zabini, he was not who he once was, and that was simply that.

“Hermione,” he attempted, “you can trust me.”

She looked at him then, eyes red and sore looking. Her face was positively soaked, her breathing uneven and choppy. “Why, Draco? I’m not an idiot. We sent that letter to your father, we—”

“Because I don’t like them.” The next part absolutely chafed to say aloud, but he saw the necessity. Feeling miserably vulnerable and just plain old miserable in general, he added, “Because I like you.”

That produced a fresh round of sobbing, which wasn’t what he’d intended; feeling awful, he tentatively put his hand on her shaking back. She allowed the touch, and, after a moment, leaned closer.

“Really?” she murmured, low and uncertain. He saw her gaze dart to her wrist; covered though it was, he knew she was seeing it as it had been months ago, torn and marred. “How can you after everything?”

Taking her hand, he hid her wrist with his fingers. Cheeks on fire and heart thudding, he was sure he’d never been more uncomfortable. Strange, because he’d also never been so sure.

“You’re a fighter, Hermione. What’s not to like? This means nothing.” Gently, he traced her wrist with his finger.

She gave a watery laugh. “It means everything, Malfoy. I hate crying. I cry all the time now, and I’m always afraid. I’m not a fighter. I can’t stand when people touch me, when people look at me, even. I see him every night in my dreams, and I remember…” She choked on the words, but fought back, as he knew she would. “I remember what it felt like. All of it. When he did that, and I couldn’t move… when I _knew_ what was going to happen… My wrist was the least of it, do you understand that? It was almost a fucking gift, Draco. I wanted to die. I wanted to bleed out in the snow. The way his hands felt, the smell of his breath… it’s _everything_.”

Draco had to look away; couldn’t bear the sight of her. All of this, all of it, was his father’s doing. Years of his own hatred had done this. Choking on a lump in his own throat, he tried to pretend he was somewhere else, but the force of her sobs shook the whole couch. He withdrew his hand, but she came after it, slumping against his chest and wetting his shirt with her own private misery. After a moment, he put his arms around her. Tentatively, always tentatively.

“I never would have left you there.” His own voice was too tight; he actually _sounded_ close to tears. Too far gone to be horrified. “You are so much better than all of that. I wouldn’t have let you die, and I’m not going to leave you now. I’m not going to make what he did right, do you understand me?”

She nodded against his chest; then her own arm was circling him. He held her tightly, too tightly probably, but she didn’t move, and neither did he.

“You listen to me, Hermione. Really fucking listen. What my father did was something that happened to you. It’s not who you are. It was a really terrible thing, but it doesn’t define you.”

She was still nodding, still crying. Draco let her stay where she was, rubbing circles over her back; touching her arms. He held her until she’d cried herself out, trying not to cry himself. He hated his father, and it was getting less hard to think it. He was a sadistic bastard, Lucius Malfoy; what he’d done was unforgivable. Where Draco had come from was unforgivable. He clung to Hermione like a lifeline, like salvation; like the only thing good in his whole miserable existence.

After awhile, after her sobs had calmed down to shaky intakes of air, Hermione asked, “Do you really like me? Like, like me like me?”

The absurdity of her question after everything made him laugh. She fake punched him in the stomach; then snickered herself.

“I think that much is obvious,” he allowed, feeling like a dolt.

“I’d be a terrible girlfriend,” she said. He hated the tone of her voice. “I want very much to… you know…” She made a vague motion with her hand, which Draco found charming, despite everything.

“Get yourself a piece of Draco Malfoy?” he supplied, smiling.

Hermione sniffed, and said, “It’s hard.”

His smile died a slow death. Frowning, he rubbed at her back again, and hated their circumstances; wished he hadn’t been such a blind idiot up until now, back when things might have been somewhat normal.

“I know it is, Hermione,” he said quietly. “You know I’m just joking, right? I can wait until you’re ready. I’m not—”

“Oh, you have nothing to prove there, Draco,” she interrupted, before he could say _I’m not my father_. “But what if I never can?”

“Someday you’ll be able to,” he assured, resting his head on her hair. If he was a sot, so be it. “We’ll just keep going slow, alright? I want you to trust me, and not be afraid. And if it takes a long time, even if it never happens for us, I’d still want you for a girlfriend.”

Hermione sighed, and snuggled closer. Their silence was comfortable; easy. Draco didn’t think there was much left to say.

Apparently, he was wrong. Laughing, Hermione said, “Merlin, Draco Malfoy is my boyfriend. This is so embarrassing!”

He snorted. “For the love of God, don’t say it aloud!”

And then she was leaning up. Her kiss was short and chaste, but still strangely sweet. Not wanting to call attention to it, Draco grabbed her paper up off the table and said, “Dialects, eh. Got any ideas for my paper?”

**

Getting into the Gryffindor dorms was easier for Pansy than it had been for Draco, in the reverse. The common room was loud and boisterous, everything reserved Pansy wasn’t used to. She waited with her nose stuck in the air, uncomfortable, until a second year left the boys’ dorms; then she was up the stairs and on her way.

Finding Seamus’ room was trial and error more than anything; he was not alone in it. Pausing until she decided his roommates were sleeping, she crept towards his bed, leaned close, and whispered, “Seamus, it’s me. I’m going to sit on the bed. Draw the curtains, please.”

In his defence, he only wasted a moment being bewildered—perhaps he had known of the Cloak before. She waited until the curtains were drawn, until they were hidden, before pulling off the slippery material.

Something on her face must have alarmed Seamus. He was beside her in a second, hands on her face. Whispering urgently, he asked, “What’s happened, Pansy? How did you get that Cloak?”

But she shook her head, not wanting to talk. “Can I sleep here tonight, Seamus? I’ll sleep in the Cloak, and no one will know. I’ll leave early, I’ll—”

“Hush.” Bidding her to stand, he pulled the covers back; tucked them both in snugly. She let him hold her, snuggled close and breathed him in. “Don’t put on the Cloak right away. I want to see you.”

As for her, Pansy didn’t want to be seen. Shamed, she hid her face in Seamus’ chest. Tried not to think about anything other than the end goal; of her life with him when this was all over, if he would still have her.

“We can’t talk,” she whispered. “Someone will hear, and I don’t want to leave.”

Seamus nodded, tangling his fingers in her hair. She felt his worry without even looking at him, and it was her undoing. Pansy was not given to wracking out of control sobs, but she was not above silent tears. _So pretty when you cry_ her old nanny had told her, _So helpless, so tragic. Work on that, my girl. Men love the wounded bird type_. She'd worked on so much over the years.

“I love you,” she murmured into his chest.

His hands pulled her closer. She wanted him to pull her so tight that she would cease to be anything outside of a part of him. She was dirty, and bad—all the things she’d done.

But he was forgiving, without even knowing. Kissing her forehead, he whispered, “I love you” back without hesitation.

**

The message attached to the owl flying away from Hogwarts was not a heavy burden for the bird chosen to carry it. It was a short little letter, and had nothing on the missives he had carried for his master before. Was nothing like what he’d carried before, though the bird couldn’t have known that.

_Plan progresses,_ it said. _G. refuses to fight back. Almost broken_.

 

**TBC**


	15. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t apologize and have it be enough, so I just want to thank everyone who still actually sticks by this story even though updates take forever and a day. This is the most complicated thing I’ve ever written, and I think that’s what makes it so hard. But I wanted to thank everyone and let them know that I appreciate it very much. We’re on the home stretch! I imagine there is at most two chapters and an epilogue left. :)

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Fourteen  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Things kick into high gear, and Hermione and Draco know their moment is coming.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author’s Notes: I can’t apologize and have it be enough, so I just want to thank everyone who still actually sticks by this story even though updates take forever and a day. This is the most complicated thing I’ve ever written, and I think that’s what makes it so hard. But I wanted to thank everyone and let them know that I appreciate it very much. We’re on the home stretch! I imagine there is at most two chapters and an epilogue left. :)  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

  


“Grasping with my fingernails  
As they tear through your skin  
Leaving no signs of pain  
No wounds to mend…”

\- Azure Ray’s “No Signs of Pain”

 

Pansy awoke softly, surrounded by warmth and the colour red, neither of which was at all common in the Slytherin dorms. Without opening her eyes, she smiled; beside her, Seamus was snoring loud enough to wake the dead, sleeping with absolute abandon. Despite the racket, she found herself charmed. Yawning, she rolled onto her side and found herself face to face with him. Delight shot through her.

In truth, she forgot about the Cloak entirely until she gave into temptation and pressed her lips against his—rather pressed her lips against slippery fabric. He murmured sleepy nothings under her mouth; then, he came awake with a great snort, shooting back in alarm. Pansy stifled a giggle—clearly, Seamus too had forgotten about the Cloak—and he soon joined her, collapsing on his back with a shamed grin. She watched him as he groped for his wand; as he cast a whispered silencing spell.

Then, he was on his side, facing her. She continued to watch as he tried to guess exactly where she was, as though he could somehow sense his way to eye contact. Unable to resist, Pansy reached over and pinched him hard on the bum. Seamus choked on a chuckle and shot forward, catching her arm through the Cloak; then, with only a minimal amount of groping, he was underneath as well.

“There’s something very kinky about all of this,” he whispered, grin wicked. “Not really knowing where you are, that’s hot.”

Pansy, to her horror, found herself blushing and grinning like a virginal idiot. The look Seamus sent her next was soft enough to turn her insides to mush, and, when he rolled on top of her, she met his mouth halfway.

Abruptly, it was very easy not to think about what tonight would bring, and with whom. It was very easy to let Malfoy and Granger and Zabini and all of that slip away. There was the here and the now, and that was enough.

Delighted with the moment she’d been awarded, Pansy cradled him in her arms and her legs; tried to touch him everywhere all at once. Nothing existed outside of him, and there was no shame when he touched her back. If she had been feigning desire long enough to forget the real thing, Seamus reminded her; soon, she was gasping pleasure into his ear as his fingers and lips made an exploration of her body. If Zabini’s hands on her breasts nauseated her, Seamus couldn’t get her shirt off fast enough. If the thought of Zabini touching her down there filled her with self-loathing, Seamus couldn’t get there soon enough. The sight of him above her lit her stomach on fire.

“I love you,” he swore, pulling back enough to take a long look at her. She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I want to marry you. Right now, if I could.”

“Yes,” she said back, nodding. “Yes. I love you too.”

Nodding hard once, he kissed her mouth and stroked her body. Eagerness and inexperience made them both unskilled; when it happened, it was clumsy and half by accident. The flash of pain didn’t catch Pansy by surprise, or bother her particularly; she knew that there was pain before pleasure, always, and in everything.

Cradling his face in her hands, she watched his expressions change; listened to his breathing become harsh and erratic. There was nothing that mattered outside of Seamus; no one who came close to what he meant to her. This was beautiful and perfect, what they had, and was possibly the only thing that had ever been that way for her.

“I love you,” she repeated.

Seamus’ gaze was wild when it locked unto hers, almost enough to bring her back to his level. “My soon-to-be-wife,” he affirmed.

He didn’t know what he was doing, that much was certain. His hips moved against hers with uncertain eagerness, his thrusts uneven and sporadic. For Pansy, only her feelings for him managed to dull the pain. Winching slightly, she wrapped her legs around him and gave him an encouraging smile as his breath rushed over her face and his brow creased.

It didn’t take long, and it wasn’t very much like the romance books she’d read where everyone got off eons of times and the lovemaking lasted forever. With a few hurried thrusts and a loud grunt, Seamus was done, before she’d fully passed her discomfort.

Still, she smiled at him, feeling warm and soft all over. He chuckled low under his breath and, cupping her cheek, collapsed down beside her.

“Sorry,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “That was a poor showing.”

But Pansy thought it was no such thing. Tenderly, she propped herself up on her elbow and traced Seamus’ face with her fingers. She had not known a great deal of love and affection in her life—her friendship was Malfoy was possibly the only pure part of her past—and feeling so much of it now was almost overwhelming. She had the strangest urge to cry.

“You’ve never been with anyone,” she whispered. “You told me that. We’ll have time.”

“I wish we had time now,” he admitted with a boyish smile. “I wish we had all day.”

Then he was kissing her again, soft and slow and perfect. And in that moment, Pansy knew. With quaking certainty, she realized she had given enough. As Seamus’ hands traced her body with the utmost care—worshipped her, really—she knew that she could never give her body to Zabini, no matter what was at stake. She would merely have to play her game some other way. There was no one for her but Seamus, and she wouldn’t let Zabini’s ugliness tarnish what she had right now.

A new plan, that was what she needed. And a new plan required answers. Malfoy had held out long enough.

Forcing herself to pull back, she collapsed onto her pillow and ran a hand over her face.

“I should get going,” she said. “I have things to do before breakfast.”

“Always scheming,” said Seamus, but his tone was fond. “Do I dare ask where you’re off to?”

“Malfoy,” Pansy answered without preamble.

Seamus made a face and then sighed. “Better than Zabini, I suppose. I look forward to the day you can tell me about all of this. Until then, however, thank Hermione for the Cloak. I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve that from her, but I know I for one had a smashing good time, for once.”

Pansy shot him an alarmed look, but he was smiling. Cheekily, he pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key.

**

Draco had always taken great delight in things of beauty.

Preening a little, he leaned towards the mirror and nudged a lock of hair just so; grinned when he saw utter perfection. His entire life might have been falling to shit before his eyes but, Merlin help him, he was absolutely delicious to look at. Delightful, really. It was a wonder that Hermione had not found it in her heart to jump him yet, when faced with such a superior piece of handsomeness.

Thinking of Granger made him hide a small shudder. She was sitting in the other room, ready for a day of classes and self-esteem blows inflicted by yours truly, and had not done a thing to her hair, past a weak attempt at brushing it into submission—a _failed_ attempt, too. He could only thank his lucky stars that he had not been cursed with hair like hers; he truly was a sap, because he had to suppress a small smile too.

Still, though. He was a thing to marvel at, a fine specimen of—

An insistent knocking dragged him away from his cheerful inner tirade. Glowering, he was about to shout out to Hermione to bugger off and not interrupt his morning rituals when he realized the pounding was coming from the door to his rooms, and not the door to the bathroom. Hermione seemed to realize it too, if the sudden silence from the other room was any indication.

A visit was a surprise, sad fact that. Draco exited the bathroom with no small amount of alarm in time to see Hermione fleeing towards his bedroom. A quick glance about showed that no sign of her remained; when she closed the door to his bedroom, he opened the door to his rooms, taking a great deep remember-you’re-a-Malfoy breath.

It was all for naught, he soon realized. It was only Pansy standing in the corridor, clinging tightly to a pile of silky fabric—the Cloak. He was about to sigh his relief quite loudly and perhaps verbally when the look on her face caught his attention, and silenced him completely. Looking up and down the corridor, he motioned for her to enter and closed the door quickly once she was safely inside.

Without preamble, he demanded, “What’s happened?”

Pansy, for her part, looked surprised. It was a testament to their friendship he noticed at all. She looked as composed as ever—pretty and icy and distant and all the other adjectives that made him think _Pansy_ ; still, something was off. Her posture, perhaps, was not as ramrod straight; her eyes, upon closer inspection, looked a little wild. Trepidation filled him, and he was getting pretty fucking sick of that, thanks ever so. Still, he was worried.

Pansy took what was clearly meant to be a steadying breath, but it faltered and fell short. Passing him the Cloak, she barked, “I almost… with Zabini. Last night. And I’m not going to go that far, do you hear?”

She was expecting a fight, Draco realized, but she was expecting all wrong. He had never wanted to ask that of her; had only acknowledged that that was the path she seemed to be on.

“I can hold him off with other things,” she insisted, chin tipped very high, “but not that. And I won’t be in the dark any longer, do you understand? I don’t want to know half answers to everything. How am I supposed to learn anything if I don’t know what to look for? They’re coming for Granger. I want to know why.”

All of that, Draco understood. It had been a year of half truths, and if Pansy was only half as frustrated as he had been, it was still quite an ordeal to go through. Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes. Wished and wished and wished; hated himself for having to deny her.

“It’s not my story, Pansy. I’ve promised not to tell.” Honour was a strange thing to try on for size.

Pansy screwed up her face and was obviously about to protest when his bedroom door opened and closed with a bang. Hermione was with them suddenly, arms crossed and expression hard. All the anger disappeared from Pansy’s expression; her lips tilted up in a teasing smile.

“Why, Draco! You dog you. I thought you were making all that nonsense up the other day.” Still smiling, she smacked his arm. “How dare you not tell me?”

“Making what up?” interrupted Hermione. Then her eyes grew wide, and she was smacking his arm too, although with much more intent. “You told everyone you shagged me?”

“Don’t worry, Granger,” Pansy said helpfully, taking a pointed look at the front of Granger’s trousers. “He made sure to point out all those stories about Mud… excuse me, _Muggles_ , having teeth down _there_ were entirely rubbish.”

Feeling his cheeks light up, Draco cut them both off. “It was an explanation for hanging around you, Hermione, that’s all.” And to Pansy, “I haven’t… done anything with her.”

Pansy’s face fell, but only for a moment. Then, she was all business. “Fine. You haven’t shagged her.” Turning her back on Draco like he was the least important thing in the world (and come _on_!), she stared Hermione down. “I will not carry on this nonsense for one second longer without answers, Granger. I don’t care who you are or who you think is protecting you. I am a Parkinson, and I am not entirely without protection myself. Why is Zabini coming for you? What’s the real reason Slytherin is so up in arms over Draco? Can’t imagine why Crabbe and Goyle would see fit to kick the shit out of him over the thought of him shagging you. There’s more and I demand to know it.” She finished with a queenly little huff.

But Hermione was not to be outdone. Not looking overly bothered by Pansy’s death glare, she coolly returned, “Why are you helping? There’s more than just your friendship with Draco, and I demand to know that first.”

Pansy’s eyes widened a little—she shot a sideways glance at Draco, who was holding his breath. Hermione’s cheeks had gone pink and her fists were clenched; she looked uncomfortable but determined. Draco wondered what she’d tell Pansy, what Pansy would tell her. Beside him, Pansy shifted her weight; then she was staring at him.

“She can be trusted?” she asked Draco, ignoring Hermione completely. “She can be counted on not to speak to Potter or Weasley?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, before Draco had a chance to answer. “I’ve kept them in the dark this whole entire year. I will not tell them anything that would cause a distraction. Believe me, for no other reason than that, if you must. I would never jeopardize their mission.” And her chin tilted up, just a little, just a trace of Gryffindor pride.

For a fraction of a second, Pansy’s guard dropped; Draco watched a trapped expression flicker across her normally controlled face. Then, she sighed, and said with bristling pride all her own, “If you ruin this for me, Granger, I will ruin you. You have my word.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but said, “Naturally. And, of course, I would do the same. I know you think you are sitting pretty with Slytherin, but I’m not without connections myself.”

Both girls looked at Draco then. Feeling rather torn, he threw up his hands and collapsed backwards onto the couch. “Oh, let’s all share, shall we?” he threw in, voice laced with sarcasm. “Let’s discuss angles and feelings and—”

“Bugger off, Malfoy,” snapped Pansy. He spared her a strained smile.

Silence, then. Pansy glared, Hermione glared; Draco watched with feigned boredom, wondering who would reveal what and how much. His heart was thudding too fast—glee at a chance to clear the air, for once. As per the arrangement, Pansy spoke first.

“I’m secretly engaged,” she barked, all traces of internal softness buried and dead. “To a Gryffindor. I won’t tell you whom. Everything I’m doing for you, I’m doing for myself. I will be with him when this is all over.”

Surprise drained Hermione’s cheeks of any lingering colour. She blinked a few times; shot Draco a did-you-know look. And then her silence was loaded and telling. Clearly, she was running Gryffindor House through her mind, weighing options. Under her silence, Pansy fiddled with the hem of her skirt, more fidgety than Draco normally saw her. Almost insecure. Almost afraid.

“I love him,” offered Pansy, with a defensive little shrug.

Hermione opened her mouth only to shut it. Tried again. “I won’t tell Ron and Harry,” she promised, smile softer than any tone Pansy had deigned to use. “I’ll keep your secret and, if I’m alive, wish you happy.”

Draco winced; Pansy did not. “I’ll do what I can, Granger. To ensure your safety, but--”

“I was attacked,” Hermione blurted, face a frozen mask. “By Draco’s father. He carved the Mark in my arm and left me for dead. Draco found me. The plan, as far as I can see, has been to break my morale until I’m easier to kill. He sends me presents. I imagine Zabini’s role is as a go-between, but I will be ready when my time comes.”

For a split second, Hermione glanced at Draco, her gaze a silent question. He didn’t move, didn’t change his expression, but she must have sensed something. Into the silence, she added, “I will be ready when Zabini takes me to Malfoy.”

Another look was shot at Draco. Pansy was uncertain. She pursed her lips, and regarded Hermione quite solemnly. Draco watched as some of Hermione’s bravado drained away, but she refused to break eye contact. He wanted to touch her, to give her strength, but he did not move. Could not move. His thudding heart had stilled completely at the extent of her confession; only shock managed to tramp down anger at the reveal of his secret. Her secret. Their shame.

“Attacked?” echoed Pansy, and Draco saw it. Flashes of memories, flashes of everything. She was gazing at him again, and he saw the question in her eyes. The disbelief. “Do you mean…?”

“He didn’t kill me,” said Hermione, voice shooting upwards with pride, or determination, or something else Draco couldn’t guess at, “and that’s all that matters.”

Pansy looked torn. But then she was reaching for Draco, pale fingers stretched in his direction. He took a hold of her hand, but couldn’t meet her gaze. Wasn’t strong like the rest of them. Didn’t know how to be. He couldn’t face her shame, or her realization.

But Pansy didn’t sound ashamed of him. “Your father?” she said, voice gentle now. “You’ve gone against your father. Draco, I’m so sorry.”

But he didn’t want her pity. Didn’t want to talk about it. Shaking off her hand, he said, “It’s no less than what you’ve done.”

Pansy let out a gust of breath. When he looked up finally, he saw that her eyes looked damp. Her smile was empathetic, but not pitying. She understood, more than anyone else could have, the choice he’d made. Relief shot through him. Dazed him. No one could know him as Pansy did in that moment, not even Hermione.

“I’m glad you’re with me, Draco,” she said, quite uncharacteristically. “I never wanted to have to face you down.”

Feeling oddly choked up, Draco reached for her hand again and pulled her down beside him. She’d gone too tense, too still, but she sat rigidly against him, and heaved a phenomenal sigh.

Then, looking at Hermione who had stood quietly and respectfully through all of this, she said, “I think women get the worst of it, all the time. I know you think I’m a whore, the Slytherin slut, but I… I’ve always done what I had to. I’ve always tried to be a survivor. I’m… sorry about what happened to you.”

Hermione nodded, and swallowed loudly. Tipped up her chin, although Draco didn’t think it could tip any higher. Then, her shoulders sagged, and she gave a watery chuckle.

“You can trust Draco,” said Pansy.

Again, Hermione nodded, before swiping rather pathetically at her eyes. Pansy was blinking too, and Draco found himself darkly amused by the tension in the air.

“Let’s all have a good cry between enemies,” he offered.

“I wish you happy,” said Hermione, too fast.

Beside him, Pansy giggled, high pitched and a touch hysterical. And then Hermione did what Draco never expected. She stepped forward and took Pansy’s other hand in hers.

“We’ll come out on top of this, Pansy,” she said, fervently. “We’ll have our day.”

And Pansy, ever the Slytherin slut on the outside, smirked and said, “Darling, I’d much rather you came on top of Draco!”

**

Although Draco had not wanted to leave Hermione or Pansy, that afternoon found him holed up in the library, trying to focus on a paper. It was an odd thing this—homework in a time of uncertainty—but his grades were a matter of pride; perhaps, in truth, he honestly had wanted some alone time, away from Pansy’s dilemma, away from Hermione’s death mission, away even from his own feelings for both of them.

Homework felt like a relief. Like a touch of normalcy. He read formulas and knew them, saw patterns and let them unravel on the paper before him. Homework was black and white, perfect in its blandness; real life was not.

In the end, real life found him anyway.

A shadow cast itself across Draco’s paper, and the scent of cloying cologne hung heavily on the air. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Zabini,” Draco greeted coolly, feeling his old persona wash over him easy as pie. Leaning back in his chair as regally as possible, he gestured at the spare one across the table. “Have a seat, and stay awhile.”

Zabini took in Draco’s posture with a glare, and Draco knew the other boy would have preferred to remain standing. Nevertheless, he walked to the spare seat, threw his bag on the table without an ounce of grace, and sat down.

Silence. Draco decided the best course of action was to feign boredom (personally, he always loved this approach), so he began to leisurely examine his fingernails. Zabini’s glare was burning a hole through him, and Draco felt tension knot and coil within his stomach. He forced himself to concentrate on maintaining a cool facial expression.

“Without your Mudblood whore today?” Zabini asked, tone deceptively light and casual.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “You’re awfully concerned with her, Zabini. I already told you. I had her, and I grew bored.” He shrugged for effect.

If Zabini bought it, Draco couldn’t tell. The other boy smiled at him, oozing deadly charm.

“Your father must have hit the roof over that one, eh,” Zabini observed, chuckling at the novelty of it. He even went so far as to lean over to pat Draco heartily on the shoulder.

Draco forced a smile. So it was time to play all buddy buddy then, was it. Fine and dandy. “Who’s to say my father knew? He can’t be everywhere at once now, can he.”

“I think we both know your father knew.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh yes. How on earth could I forget that lovely interlude with your two goons? I can’t believe you were having me trailed, Zabini. Shouldn’t there be trust between us Slytherins?”

Somewhere along the very brief way, Zabini apparently thought enough was enough. Leaning forward on his elbows, he shot Draco a pointed look and hissed, “You said you were done with everything.”

“Yes,” Draco confirmed, flicking a piece of lint off his trousers as though he had no cares in the world whatsoever. And, because it would sting, he added, “I also told you you were more than welcome to take anything of mine that I’ve already had. Perhaps Pansy is boring you now? Perhaps you’d like a go with the Mudblood? I’ve got some pointers, if you’d like.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Zabini snapped, remembering to whisper just in time. Draco let his gaze wander around the library, let Zabini think he was oh so done with him. “Tell me what you know, and spare me the bullshit about your precious place at the table.”

So Zabini was just as jealous as Draco had suspected. Zabini might have been in the senior Malfoy’s good graces, but he was wise enough to know that his mission had been Draco’s; that Draco’s return to Slytherin could very well end Zabini’s involvement. Zabini had to know that Lucius Malfoy knew—had to know that Draco was back, baby. As such, Draco let his smile grow slightly smug.

“Poor Zabini,” he said. “Always the backup, aren’t you?”

For one glorious moment, Draco thought Zabini was going to clock him right in the face. His heart rate sped up, and adrenaline shot through him. It was time, he thought gleefully, time to end this before it could get any worse.

But Zabini was a Slytherin too, and he wasn’t one for getting his hands dirty. Leaning back in his chair, he asked with clever casualness, “You’ve got it back then?”

Draco almost had to give him credit for cutting right to the chase. Thoughts of diplomacy ran through his head, but he knew it wasn’t going to end that way. Zabini’s hatred of him ran deep, and the feeling was absolutely mutual. This was going to end with one of their heads on a platter, and Draco would be fucked before it was his. Or Hermione’s.

“It was offered,” he said casually. “I already told you. I’m done. It’s yours, Zabini. It’s all yours.”

Zabini smelled bullshit that much was obvious. Still, he stood and glowered down at Draco. “The victory will be all mine.”

“Of course,” Draco conceded. “Enjoy her when the time comes.”

He waited until Zabini had moved away, until Zabini was leaving, before adding just loudly enough for the other boy to make out, “I know I did.”

**

By the time Draco made it back to his rooms, he was nursing the mother of all headaches. He wanted it over, wanted it said and done, wanted the whole fucking war to be finished. No more games, no more deceit. He wanted out of danger, he wanted Hermione vindicated, and he wanted to sleep at night without worrying about her and about Pansy. If the shit was going to hit the fan, he was absolutely ready.

Hermione was sitting on the couch when he entered, face sharp and alert. Draco spotted the Cloak draped over a chair, and said a little prayer that she’d been careful. He mustered up a smile for her benefit, and felt a surprising rush of happiness when she sent him a slightly forced one back.

“I saw you in the library,” she said. “With Zabini.”

Sighing, Draco sat beside her and related what had happened. “We’re reaching a boiling point,” he concluded. “It’ll be soon. Zabini will act before I have the chance to change my mind. He’ll want to get it all over with before I can receive further instructions from my father.”

“Good,” said Hermione, face made of steel. “Good.”

He smiled at her again, this time genuinely, and allowed himself the luxury of taking her in visually. Even spoiling for a fight, she was fetching. Possibly even more so because of it. He’d always admired her spirit, even when he’d loathed her very existence, and it warmed him now. Taking her hand, he spotted a book laying on the couch beside her.

“What’s this then?” he asked, reaching for it. “More magical ways of defeating my father?”

Hermione actually blushed, and tried to snatch the book back. He held her off easily, making sure she wasn’t actually upset.

“Give it here, Malfoy. That’s private, you nosy little prat.”

“Oh but, Hermione! I am your _boyfriend_ now! There should be no secrets between a healthy couple.” He smiled at her cheekily.

Holding her off with one hand, he glanced at the title and felt the wind go out of his sails. “Oh,” was all he had to say.

Hermione wouldn’t look at him. He let her take the book back.

“It’s to help me deal with future relationships,” she murmured, sounding embarrassed. “Present relationships, I mean. And… and to help me with everything. Books always help me. Sometimes, you’re… you’re too involved. Because he’s your father, you understand. Sometimes I need distance. Some things I can’t talk about with you, or with anyone. It’s not like I can get professional help at the moment, now can I? I want to be normal someday again. Or at least as normal as I can be.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said immediately, before flopping down onto the couch. He managed to get his legs up to rest in Hermione’s lap, smiling when she only made a token objection. “You’re being very proactive. I think when all this is over I’m going to need about ten thousand of those books myself.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “You needed ten thousand self-help books before this even started.” Then, to his surprise, she extricated herself from his legs and cuddled down beside him; squished right between his body and the cushions. Smiling with surprised pleasure, he tucked her into his arm.

“Do you think we’ll live through this?” he asked, toying with her hair. “All of us? You, me, and Pansy?”

She propped herself up enough to meet his gaze. “Does that worry you, Draco?”

Draco, from habit, didn’t like to admit that anything worried him aloud. He choked on pride for a good few minutes and then shrugged. “My father will be very angry. Zabini already is. It won’t do to underestimate either one of them, and we are lacking an actual plan.”

Hermione said nothing, but her silence was telling. One of them would be dead, she or his father. He wanted words of comfort, and he didn’t. Frustrated with himself, he let out a gust of air and felt his head pound.

But Hermione offered him nothing but the cold hard truth. “It’ll be over soon, Draco, and then we’ll see who’s standing.”

Her statement left him feeling cold and empty. But it had always been life or death, all or nothing. It had always been fucking hard, never easy. He had chosen his path, and now he might die for it, at the hands of Zabini, at the hands of his father, at the hands of fucking Voldemort. And the awful truth was that it hadn’t even been as easy as merely choosing the girl—not that that had been a cake walk. Draco had had to choose what was right, and what was worth it; only he had never contemplated a world without being in it, and the thought of dying for what he only recently believed in filled him with a desperation he couldn’t voice.

He found her mouth before he knew what was what, and then found that he could kiss her with the force of everything he couldn’t say. He prayed she didn’t pull back, hoped against hope that she was okay with this, but she was kissing him back with the same life or death abandon, and he knew she was as scared as he was, knew it down to his core.

“Hermione,” he said, because he couldn’t say that he was scared. Couldn’t ask for her touch, couldn’t beg for comfort.

She shushed him, shifting her position until she had manoeuvred her way on top of him. He looked at her, and thought she was absolutely fucking glorious.

“I will tell you when it’s not okay,” she promised him, before leaning down and claiming his mouth again.

More was okay than Draco had been strictly expecting. She let him stroke her back, let him touch her over her blouse. She even let him squeeze her bottom. She wasn’t enjoying it in the same way he was—even this far gone he could sense her distance, her calculation—but it was more than before, and it gave him hope that someday she just might come out on top of this, that she just might get to be some semblance of her old self.

Abruptly, she rolled back onto her side. It took a moment for his head to clear enough to glance in her direction, and he found her staring back with flushed cheeks and a naughty smile.

Merlin help him.

“Did I do something?” he asked, ashamed when it came out like a squeak. Better, however, to know and all that.

But Hermione shook her head. “Not at all, Draco. I’ve only just thought of what I can do for you before everything gets to be too much for me.” She flushed and looked down. “I’ve never done it before, so you’ll… you’ll have to tell me. I do like to excel at things, you know.”

And then her hand was skating down his chest, and her fingers were fussing clumsily with his belt and the zipper of his trousers. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, which was just as well since he thought his own were comically wide, and she was as red as he had ever seen her, but. _But_.

“I like you very much,” she whispered.

Draco was sure he said something in the affirmative back, but he was thinking of the day when she would be okay, whenever that day was. He was thinking of how special he could try to make each step, how non-threatening and perfect he would be for her. He was thinking of all that she deserved and all of her bravery, all of her strength.

Then, her lips found his, and he thought of nothing but her and this moment.

**

When Pansy entered Zabini’s rooms later that night, he was lounging on his bed, looking for all the world like the cat that got the canary. Dread crept up her spine, dread and a healthy dose of loathing, naturally. Something had happened, something crucial. Despite it all, she managed to summon a smile, even as her stomach settled in her shoes.

“You’re looking awfully proud of yourself, my darling,” she cooed, toeing off her aforementioned shoes and climbing up to lounge beside him. She couldn’t think of Draco, couldn’t think of Seamus, and couldn’t think of Hermione when she reached for Zabini’s hand. Steeling her emotions, she asked with absolutely witless delight, “You have managed to further the plan for the Mudblood? I knew that you could.”

“Did you?” he asked, turning frozen eyes on her before she could realize that somewhere along the way she had misplayed. She fought to keep her smile steady even as fear trickled through her body; Zabini didn’t look like smiling. “Did you sense my success even as you welcomed Malfoy back with open arms? Even as you held open the doors of Slytherin? Poorly played, my dear.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, struggling for calm. Of course, Zabini was jealous. Poorly played indeed.

“I heard him call it off,” she said. “I heard him tell you it’s done for him. What’s the harm in keeping company?”

She was on her back before she knew what was what, Zabini hovering over her. Ugliness churned in his eyes, and scalded her with its force. He was furious and yet… and yet he looked oddly satisfied. Foreboding nearly took Pansy’s breath away.

“You’ve underestimated me, you traitorous bitch, and you’ve certainly underestimated Malfoy.”

“I have done no such thing,” she insisted, trying to smile innocently. “You know I love you. I would never do anything to underestimate you, or to undermine you.”

“You were his first,” he reminded, voice low and dangerous. She felt sick under his gaze. “Everyone and everything was his first.”

Pansy choked out a chuckle as if deadly envy was only the funniest thing in the world. “I am _yours_. I would never betray you to Malfoy.” How ridiculous, said her tone.

Abruptly, Zabini rolled off her, landing on his back on the bed. Relief shot through her, and she mentally eyed the doorway.

“Little matter,” he said, sounding bored now. “You will be mine eventually. It’s all but a done deal, and the deal will be done soon, my dear. I am through with waiting.”

Pansy said nothing because she found she had nothing to say. It was a slap in the face to think of Seamus, but that was just what she accidentally did. Her insides felt frozen, and she thought _no_ with her all her might.

“I grow tired of waiting too,” she whispered.

He was on her again in a flash, contemplating her whole person with a bored expression falsely planted on his face. She tried not to flinch when he lowered his head to her ear.

“I will be gone this weekend,” he murmured. “Do you understand what I’m saying? After that, things will be different. Everything will be different, and you will be mine.”

A million thoughts hit Pansy at once, and only years of being herself kept her from betrayed her panic. She had to get to Malfoy, had to. Sitting up, she pressed her lips to his, and sighed, “Darling, I can’t wait.”

**

Zabini let her stay for an hour, revelling in her torn feelings. She was obvious in everything, in her long ago affection of Malfoy, in her great desire to be at Zabini’s side when this was all over. She had a moment of weakness, his poor girl, but Pansy was no slouch, and he knew she knew what side to end up on. Malfoy and the Mudblood were going down, and his girl would stand by him, cold, glorious, and perfect.

He waited five minutes after she left before returning to the Slytherin common rooms. Crabbe and Goyle were by the fireplace doing whatever it was that two people with such low intelligence did to occupy their time, and he gestured for them to join him.

“Keep an eye on Parkinson,” he murmured when they were closer. “She will realize the error of her ways eventually, but first she will go to Malfoy. I want to know the minute she does.”

Crabbe’s eyes lit up with dull excitement. “You’ve got what you need, then?”

Zabini nodded, looking immensely forward to the day when he could surround himself with smarter individuals. “Malfoy was easier to get close to than expected. Our day approaches soon, boys, and he will pay right along with the Mudblood bitch.”

**

A draft awoke Draco hours after he had retired for the evening. Groping for the blankets, he realized that Hermione was gone, and that the draft had come from his open bedroom door. Groaning, he made himself rise and drug his feet in the direction of the doorway.

Through it, he saw Hermione standing near the window, a piece of paper in her hands and a parcel at her feet. Her expression was stony and her posture was ramrod straight; instantly, Draco was on alert.

“What’s happened?” he asked, going to her. He retrieved the parcel at her feet, looked inside, and blanched when he saw filmy material, the obvious remains of her knickers from that night. Nausea rolled in his stomach and he closed his eyes, pained by the thought that this was his father. This was sadistic and wrong and horrible, and this was his father. Pursing his lips, he brought the package to the fireplace and, without a word from Hermione either way, he chucked it into the flames.

“You should contact your mother,” Hermione said, voice cold. She looked beyond crying; she looked terrifying. “Tomorrow, we’ll practice with the book again.”

Without another word, she held out her hand, offering Draco the letter. He took it and saw it was two pages. The first advised him on how he should leave the parcel for Hermione, and how proud Lucius was to have him back; the second was to go with the parcel, and was all for Hermione.

_Our reunion approaches, my lover_ , it read. _We will be together soon._

**TBC**


	16. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, your eyes do not deceive you! lol.

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Fifteen  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: Zabini makes his move.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author's Notes: No, your eyes do not deceive you! lol.  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

  


“And when your blood is gone how will you survive  
And your dreams, they don't stay in your mind  
They are hiding in the night  
And you think that this will be alright…”

\- Azure Ray’s “How Will You Survive”

 

Draco Malfoy was dreaming.

It was an odd mix of images, Hermione, his father, Pansy, and his mother all floating through his subconscious. Nothing formed, and nothing made sense. It was merely a discombobulated stream of thought, laced with an unpleasant aftertaste.

He came awake abruptly, blinking into the darkness of his bedroom. Turning his head slightly, he saw the whites of Hermione’s eyes, and wondered how long she’d been awake. Groaning, he closed his own, willing the feeling of impending doom to leave him the hell alone so that he could get a decent amount of sleep for once this year. The end of the school year was approaching, and he was going to flunk right out if he didn’t get a bloody chance at rest, if this whole big mess didn’t wrap itself up in time for him to study.

Hermione touched his hand with her pinkie finger. After a moment, she looped hers with his, and said, “What are you thinking about?”

“Flunking my last year,” he admitted, cringing when his voice came out as a croak, heavy with sleep. He used his spare hand to rub down his face, and blinked a few times more. Wake up, Malfoy. Look sharp!

Hermione surprised him by chuckling. “I worry about that too,” she replied. “It just seems such a waste to have done so well for so long only to be so distracted in the end.”

Draco mmph’d at her, cuddling back down into his covers. He was so warm and toasty, so very drowsy. All of the stress seemed to have combined into a wicked curse from the sandman.

Only Hermione seemed chatty. “You slept for quite a while,” Hermione observed. “I haven’t slept at all. I think you were dreaming. You talked for a bit, but it didn’t make sense. Did you know that talking in your sleep is a sign of stress? You can minimize all of this by keeping a diary, you know. You’re supposed to record the times you sleep. Have you ever considered this? Talking in your sleep can be the sign of a serious problem, Malfoy, and don't even try to pretend talking in your sleep is new for you.”

Oh, bloody hell. It was an attack of the walking textbook. Without opening his eyes, he asked, “What about people who talk when others are trying to sleep? What’s that a sign of?”

“Rudeness,” answered Hermione promptly. “It is very inconsiderate… oh.”

Giving her finger a squeeze, Draco extricated his own pinkie, and flopped over onto his other side, taking a healthy share of the blankets with him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated hard on sleeping, but found himself distracted. Hermione’s wakefulness was suddenly only about the loudest thing in the world. He found himself aggravatingly aware of her on his other side, very much conscious and awake. He set about ignoring this, lasted fifteen minutes, and then, with a put upon sigh, he rolled over again.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, rubbing at his face again. “What time is it?”

“Four, or a little thereafter.” She paused, silent and in obvious thought. “We could talk about Pansy’s Gryffindor fiancé. You could tell me who he is. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out. It’s making for a pretty good distraction actually.”

Clearly, she had been puzzling it out. Clearly, she hadn’t been able to, if the frustrated whine underlying her falsely cheerful tone was any indication. Draco smiled.

“Nope! You’re not getting that out of me,” he announced. “My lips are very much sealed.”

Hermione propped herself up and gazed down at him, her face framed by a frizzy halo of hair very much in need of a good brushing. She smiled down at him, all innocence.

“You can trust me,” she crooned, all but beaming at him.

Draco shoved her away lightly, and adopted as patient and angelic a look as he could manage. As a Malfoy, this failed on all counts. “They met over the summer at Diagon Alley,” he teased, dropping snippets of information like raindrops in a drought. “Got to talking.” About Pansy being a harpy, if he remembered correctly. Or was it a banshee? Try as he might, he still found Seamus a rather lame choice.

“Diagon Alley,” she mused, drawing out the words. He could practically hear her oversized brain mulling over who might have been around in the summer. At last, she said, “How brave of them, don’t you think? Quite romantic too, if a little foolhardy.”

Draco thought that was the height of hypocrisy, thought too that he was so over this conversation. Determinedly, he closed his eyes, only to find himself asking, “When are you going to tell Potter and the Weasel about us?”

Hermione snorted. “Oh, right away. I’ve already sent out the owl.” Then, more seriously, “I won’t cause a distraction. I will tell them when I see them, if it’s still appropriate.”

_If it’s still appropriate…_ Draco felt irritation work its way through his system. Glowering, he snapped, “If I haven’t thrown you to the curb by then, you mean?”

It had to be lack of sleep, really it did. He hadn’t been spoiling for a fight, and he was fairly certain that she hadn’t been either. Suddenly, though, her tension was almost a palpable thing, comparable only to his.

“If you haven’t thrown _me_ to the curb?” she repeated, incredulous. “Honestly, Malfoy, if it happens, I think I’ll be the one throwing you. You’re the one with the single-minded determination. You’re relentlessly stubborn when you get a notion in your head. Why, you decided you hated us _years_ ago, and look how long it took you to drop that one. You’ll stick with it until the very end.”

“You little hypocrite!” he announced, aloud this time. “That is exactly how you are! And I think I have more to lose here with my questionable relationship choices than you. My whole house will turn on me, you ungrateful little harpy.”

“Harpy?!” she echoed, voice shrill. “Oh, that’s really meaningful coming from the resident ferret.”

“I could get killed over dating you,” he pointed out, ignoring her jab and, well, not dropping his point with that aforementioned single-minded determination. “What’s the worst that’s going to happen? Potty and Weasel are going to hit the roof? How terrifying. Half our year would crucify me—”

“I am dumping you right now,” Hermione announced, elbowing him away from her for good measure.

“Like hell you are. I am dumping you. Remove yourself from my rooms at once. I am so utterly sick of you; I can’t even find words to explain it.”

“Sick of me? You’re not exactly a pleasure yourself, Malfoy. You’ve been in my head all _year_. I can’t turn around without seeing you. I can’t encounter a single problem without needing you. So, you don’t even know what it’s like to be sick of someone, understand?”

With a giant huff, she rolled over, taking up as much bed as possible and nudging him over with her arse. For a brief second, Draco saw red—this was _his_ bed. In revenge, he tugged the blankets hard, rolled as well, and pushed his arse against hers as hard as he could, wiggling and shoving until she had to give ground. Hermione retaliated by grabbing the blankets and pulling back; Draco, who was tangled in them, found himself yanked in her direction with surprising momentum. They grappled with it then, struggling for the quilt like a bunch of brassed off toddlers.

“I told you to leave,” Draco repeated, digging his heels into the mattress.

Hermione clenched her teeth and tugged hard, just as Draco decided it was a good idea to loosen his grip and attack from another angle. One moment, Hermione was beside him; the next, she was tumbling arse over teakettle off the side of the bed. Draco hadn’t decided whether to snicker before she caught the blanket to slow her fall; tangled as he was, the only noise he made was an appalled squeak before he went over after her.

They landed with a painful thud, he on top of her. Dazed, he tried to push away, but he was caught up in a jumbled mess of blankets and limbs. After a moment, he gave up, and flopped down on top of her.

“I am very pleasant to be around,” he informed her, snickering at their situation.

Hermione elbowed at him, but then she laughed too, the movement of her chest bouncing his head. Being both an opportunist and a teenage boy, Draco nuzzled himself further into the softness of her bosom, thinking he wouldn’t mind tumbling out of his bed ever if this was the result. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Figuring himself to be one lucky bugger, he touched the side of her breast; since she was still laughing, he pressed what he figured was a relatively chaste kiss against the fabric of her pyjamas.

“You have moments of pleasantness,” she allowed, going still beneath him. “In light of the circumstances, I undump you.”

“Not if I undump you first,” he clarified, leaning backwards to sit up. He took her with him, settling her on his lap and himself against the bed. “We’ve been through an awful lot, you and I, to break up just like that.”

“Single-minded determination,” she chided, but her eyes were soft and her smile was softer. "I'll tell them when this is over, Draco. When they're home."

Sitting as they were, there was no way Hermione would be able to miss in what mood all of this had left Draco. It was embarrassing, but he forced himself to soldier on. He wanted her in any way he could have her, and he decided then and there that it was important for her to know this. Was communication not the key to everything?

Dropping his head, he toyed at the skin beneath her ear with his tongue, while his hands rubbed steady patterns up her arms. She tasted bloody fantastic, and, as usual, he found himself too instantly into everything. It was a shame he and Pansy had never gotten around to full out shagging; perhaps then he wouldn’t be so randy all of the time now. Perhaps he might have learned some control along the way. As it was, when Hermione gave a little sigh of acceptance and leaned into him, he was nearly done.

Scratch embarrassing. This was humiliating.

Still exploring her neck with his mouth, he snaked a hand between their bodies and tentatively touched her over her pyjama top. This had been fine by her earlier, and it apparently still was. As such, he deepened his mission, cupping her breast in his palm and testing its weight. She sighed again, and so he continued, moving his hand down to her belly.

Trying to get under her top was a tactical error—he knew it immediately. He knew it before he accidentally touched the soft skin of her belly, before his hips jerked upwards in instinctive response. Hermione was off his lap like a shot, clambering up onto the bed and away from him.

Draco clenched his eyes shut on a wave of frustration. He was furious with himself, and furious with his father for robbing such an amazing girl of something that should have been so simple, so natural. In that moment, Draco thought he truly hated him, more than anything or anyone else. White-hot fury coursed through him, and it took more than a few steadying breaths to get it under control.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione from the bed.

Her voice grounded him a little, and he sighed, feeling his foul mood return. Standing, he gathered up the blanket and rejoined her on the bed, making sure to keep his distance.

“No, I’m sorry,” he returned. “For everything.”

Hermione’s laugh was shaking. “For what? For touching your girlfriend’s stomach? Christ, Draco. I hate myself.”

Reaching for her hand, he affirmed, “I don’t hate you. In fact, I like you very much.”

“I want you to know,” she whispered, “that I do trust you. It’s just… that _present_ , and it got me thinking again, and you know…”

He sighed a little at that, still angry, and found her hand. Closed his eyes, and tried again to think of sleeping. It had to be near five in the morning.

“Let’s call it a night,” he said. “Okay? It’s been a shitty evening. I’m in a shitty mood. Not at you. I just feel shitty. Let’s just sleep. Maybe we can salvage the next two hours.”

He hated that Hermione hesitated for the briefest of seconds before snuggling into his side, like she was maybe still just a little afraid, like she maybe couldn’t trust at all. Trying to be all things trustworthy, he held her close and placed a kiss into her curls.

“I’m not annoyed at you,” he repeated for good measure. "These things take time."

“You really don’t want to dump me? I’m not actually _that_ sick of you.”

He squeezed her lightly and said, “You’re right. You’ve got me until the bitter end.”

“Single-minded determination,” she breathed, touching his cheek.

And then she was silent. He listened to her breath even out and slow down, and he was asleep before five thirty.  
  
**

For all that Zabini might wish it, Pansy was no slouch. She cottoned on immediately to the fact that she was being tailed by the resident Slytherin brawns, and was somewhat insulted not to have warranted the brains. Did Zabini really think she mightn’t notice them lounging around outside of her Transfiguration class when the whole world knew they weren’t bright enough for it?

Regardless of Zabini’s questionable choice, being followed did present a bit of a problem. She had to get to Malfoy-- _the weekend_ had become somewhat of a mantra for her overnight—and this just made everything that much more difficult and irritating.

How he had started to figure her out was anybody’s guess.

To make matters worse, Malfoy wasn’t in the Great Hall by the time lunch rolled around; she had been hoping for a moment to make meaningful eye contact. She had also been hoping that he might notice her newfound shadows and take care of the whole thing for her, but Pansy was practical. She knew she would have to make her own luck. She had agreed to meet Seamus after her meal, and was further annoyed by the fact that that just wasn’t going to happen now.

It was even more difficult to smile insipidly at Zabini over lunch today.

By the end of her classes, Pansy had worked herself into something of a tizzy. Malfoy had apparently gone missing or was avoiding her for reasons unknown, although Granger was very visible and, Pansy noted, looked like she hadn’t slept in an age. If her friend and her… acquaintance were trying to make her look broken and awful, they were excelling.

As far as Pansy could see it, she had two choices: she could alert Seamus and recruit his help, although she abhorred the idea and wasn’t sure how to get to him without being seen, or she could zig when the walking idiots zagged.

In the end, Pansy chose that for her course of action. Frustrated, she set off on a winding and pointless walk through the corridors, listening to the two lump heads plod behind her, out of sight. She pretended to head to the library, and once she was sure they would think that was her destination, she simply ducked in an alcove and waited until they passed her; waited a few more seconds for good measure. It wouldn’t do, however, to wait for long—even they would notice their quarry had disappeared eventually—so she rushed off, keeping her footfalls as light as possible.

By the time she reached Granger and Draco’s corridor, she was out of breath and more flushed than she usually allowed herself to get. Sending the Auror hovering outside of Granger’s door an icy look, she marched to Draco’s and pounded her fist hard against it. No answer. Irritation mounting, she banged it again, barely resisting the urge to give it a good kick. Then, chin raised, she moved to Granger’s door.

“I need to speak with the Head Girl,” she informed the Auror. “We are having problems in Slytherin.”

Deciding it was best not to look to see if he believed her, she knocked on Granger’s door, and was pleased when, not a moment later, someone said, “Yes, hello?”

Pansy rolled her eyes at the other girl’s tone, but said, “It’s Parkinson. Let me in. I’m here on Head Girl business.”

Pansy was nearly certain Granger hesitated. Then, the door opened, and she was ushered in, the other girl taking a moment to wave over Pansy’s shoulder at the Auror. Pansy took a moment to glance around, having never been to the Head Girl’s room before. Perhaps she gave it more of a thorough glance than was strictly necessary; perhaps it was awkward without Malfoy.

“I trust you are well?” Hermione asked, breaking the silence.

Pansy turned to find Granger seated on the couch, face a cool mask of professionalism. She had her hands folded in her lap and everything. Sometime during Pansy's perusal of the place, Granger must have transfigured something or another into a teapot and two cups. Despite the circumstances and the urgency of her visit, Pansy snorted.

“Oh, are we going to play tea party then?” she cooed, sitting beside Granger and mimicking her body language. “So lovely the manners they teach you Muggles.”

Granger glared at her then, although her smile did not dim. It was one of the eeriest things Pansy had ever seen.

“Shall I pour?” Granger asked, sounding very much like she’d like to pour it right on Pansy’s lap.

“Sugar, please. No cream,” replied Pansy, thinking _oh, why the hell not_. She took a cautious sip, found it to taste, and added, “Where’s Malfoy? I’ve got a message for him and he’s fallen off the face of the planet.”

“The library,” was the prompt answer.

That did very well if Crabbe and Goyle were thick enough to head all the way there. Relieved, Pansy relaxed against the couch, ignoring Granger for the moment. It was nice to be somewhere without having to worry, nice to be somewhere safe.

Until Granger prodded, “The message?”

Pansy heaved a sigh, and took another sip of her tea. It was nicer to tell these things to Malfoy, who wasn’t quite as heavily involved as Granger. There was no way to tell how someone took to finding out her life was in imminent danger, but then Pansy had never considered Granger one for the theatrics. And so.

“This weekend,” she said simply. “Zabini said this weekend.”

Granger was quiet for a while, gazing into the fireplace opposite the couch. Her posture stiffened and her cheeks flushed, but Pansy was relieved to note that she seemed to be priding herself on holding it together in front of one of Malfoy’s closer friends. In front of someone who might judge. She didn’t even sniffle; didn’t seem for a second as if the thought of crying crossed her mind. Pansy was begrudgingly impressed.

A minute passed, and then Granger said, “Very well.”

Pansy felt very uncomfortable; uncharacteristically, she was nervous. Never had she spent time alone with the Head Girl, never had she wanted to.

Smoothing away invisible wrinkles in her skirt, she forced a smile. “Malfoy avoiding you?”

Granger made a face. “He’s in a quote unquote shitty mood.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise!” Pansy announced. “How exciting! Fresh Malfoy related gossip. Do spill.”

“Who is your fiancé?” Granger snarked.

Tit for tat. Pansy offered her a smile, and rose. Trying to sound as genuine as she actually felt, she said, “Don’t underestimate them, Granger. I’m afraid for you, and I’m afraid for Malfoy.”

Granger didn’t make eye contact when she too stood. She walked to the fireplace and began to fiddle with the knick knacks arranged there. With her back to Pansy, she said, “If it doesn’t work out, I’m going to make sure Malfoy gets the Cloak to you. I trust you to make... good use of it until it is returned to Harry—and it must be returned to Harry. I’ll have your word on that.”

That was almost friendly. To say Pansy was surprised didn’t quite cut it. Inclining her head, she replied, “Of course. I have a tip for you, as well. Zabini is blinded by hatred for you, hatred and lust. It’s consuming him, and it could be a weakness when… when it comes down to it.”

Granger nodded, quick and succinct. Turning to Pansy, she said, “If I don’t come back, take care of Malfoy.”

Pansy smiled. “Have I ever done anything but?”

**

The often discussed subject matter of Hermione and Pansy was currently sitting in the Quidditch stands, cloaked in darkness and his own thoughts. He longed for his broom, longed to feel the freedom of being high in the sky without a care in the world just one more time before everything came to a head. He traced the skyline with his eyes, planning dips and twirls and grabs, and felt the gentle breeze on his face; imagined it amplified by the high speeds he’d reach flying.

Life, overall, was not bloody fair.

“Are you not going to speak to me all day, then?”

Hermione’s voice, sounding suddenly from his left, almost scared the living daylights right out of Draco. Jumping, he looked to his side, and saw nothing. In his opinion, Invisibility Cloaks were the most annoying invention ever—especially since he didn’t have one of his very own.

Something—presumably a hand he couldn’t see—touched his arm, and Hermione said, “I’m here. Don’t worry. I wasn’t followed. Just a minute.”

That minute apparently entailed adjusting said Cloak. One minute Draco couldn’t see Hermione; the next, there was a swish of fabric, and he was underneath it with her. She smiled at him, leaned in, and pressed her mouth briefly to his.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she continued, “when you weren’t in the library anymore. Are you okay?”

It seemed funny to have Hermione asking him this, and he found himself at a loss for words. How could he explain that he’d been thinking about her death, and the death of his father? How could he explain the fact that he was pretty certain he’d still mourn the man who had raised him, in spite of everything? How could he explain how much he hated his father, and yet still loved him? Disappointment in the man was gnawing at his insides, but he honestly had no idea how to make Hermione understand any of this, without undermining her own pain. And so.

Simply, he said, “I owled my mother. She’s on alert for… whatever.”

Hermione nodded, brisk and businesslike. “Pansy came to see me. She said that Zabini implied it would be this weekend.”

Draco forced a smile even as his stomach fell out of place and landed with a plop in his shoes. This was like a test he wasn’t prepared for, a subject he hadn’t studied well enough, only ten thousand times worse.

“I guess we’ll have to get in some more practice then, eh?” He nudged her supportively in the side.

“Yes,” agreed Hermione. “Only not now. I’ve got a surprise for you. Come on.”

He followed, close on her heels, as she led them down the stands, taking care not to accidentally slip out of the Cloak. They walked some ways away from Hogwarts, quietly traversing the grounds.

“Where’s your Auror friend?” he asked.

“On look-out,” said Hermione, a smile in her voice. “I explained that I have a boyfriend who I can’t, you know, go out with due to all of the political upheaval… I think he knew it was you. I explained with the stress of the year, and everything… well, not _everything_. And he helped me.”

They had arrived at a run-down shack or shed or something that Draco hadn’t known was even there. Hermione went inside, deeming it safe to shed the Cloak. She emerged moments later with a broom in hand, and offered it to him with a shy smile. It was a regulation broom, nothing like his own, but he handled it carefully, and found himself beaming.

“Want to fly with me one more time, Malfoy?” she asked, blushing sweetly.

He beamed in her direction. “You hate flying.”

“I hate a lot of things, but you didn’t kill me last time, did you?”

“No, I did not.”

That said, he wasted no time preparing them for flight. He assumed Hermione knew this area well enough to know that they wouldn’t be detected; bless her, and her relentless need to know everything. He mounted the broom, and reached around to help her up. When she was settled snugly behind him, holding on a little too tight and, he suspected, closing her eyes, he kicked up and they were off.

Draco dared not go too fast, what with the bundle of nerves clinging to his chest for dear life, but it was nice still, even at the slower speed they were cruising. He closed his eyes too—believe him, this he did not mention to Hermione—and relished in the feel of the wind on his face. He knew it was only a temporary reprieve, but it felt like the weight on his shoulders had abated somewhat.

“You’re making it hard to breathe,” he announced, stopping their motion so that they were merely hovering, some ways above the grounds. He surveyed them with a smile; outright laughed when Hermione tried and failed to sit more confidently.

“Ever fancied shagging on a broom?” Draco asked, grin turning wicked. He angled so he could watch Hermione colour over his shoulder. “Granted, it would take some manoeuvring, but we _are_ the brightest in our year.”

“Merlin, no!” she protested, blushing like he’d wanted. “I don’t even know where to begin with that one.”

“You could start by lowering your hands,” he teased cheekily.

Hermione made a prudish sounding squeak, and said, “I am not _shagging_ you up here, ever. And I’m not going to snog you either. I’ll _fall_.”

“Pfft,” he dismissed. “I could catch you before you ever hit the ground. You are, as usual, underestimating my abilities.”

“Old habits,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. “Do all of you Quidditch people really do that? Shag all the way up here?”

“Of course, you delightful stick in the mud.” Or, of course they would if they ever thought of it. “You Gryffindors merely lack the imagination.”

“Lavender Brown did it once after class in the Arithmancy room sixth year,” she surprised him by saying. “With a Hufflepuff.”

Draco sighed forlornly. “I missed out on all the good gossip last year. Tell me, have any of your little dream team made the journey into manhood?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered slowly, suspecting no doubt his ulterior motives. “As far as I know, Harry didn’t lose it before you, Draco, and I’m sure he’s been much too busy this year to occupy himself with that sort of thing, you pathetic prat.”

“Good, I still have some time then.”

Hermione laughed and actually loosened her grip enough to wallop him in the stomach. Then, she nestled her face into his back, and offered her hand for him to hold. He entwined their fingers, gazing past their hands into the inky darkness below. On his own, he would have dived straight down, pulling up only at the last moment. As it was, he didn’t forget Hermione.

“I want you to have my books,” she said suddenly. “At least I know you’ll use them.”

Draco’s breath lodged unpleasantly in his throat, even as he felt panicked anger take hold of him. “What’s this then?” he asked, voice too steady. “I don’t want to hear this sort of thing.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it,” she was quick to assure. “Thank you for this year, even though you were a lot of trouble at times, weren’t you? Just… I just wanted you to hear it once.”

“Well, I didn’t want to hear it once. You’re going to be fine, Hermione. You’re not going to die. You’re going to—”

But Hermione took advantage of the angle he had shifted into to better scowl at her. Letting go of his waist quite daringly for her, she caught his cheek, leaned in, and branded his mouth with her own. He let her—of course he did—twisting further to hold her closer and locking his thighs more securely onto the broom. Wouldn't do to tip them after all his bragging.

“I thought you weren’t going to snog me up here,” he said, trying to sound light-hearted when she pulled away, although he felt anything but.

“Oh, only you’re so tempting, Malfoy!” she joked.

She turned her head away then, resting her face again between his shoulder blades. Sighing, he dipped them downwards and began their descent.

“It’s not too late to tell McGonagall,” he insisted, although he knew it to be a lost cause. “Or your Auror. Hell, it’s not too late for Potter. We can go in, wands blazing.”

“It was always too late,” she whispered. “We started this, and we’re going to end it.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. Hermione replaced the broom in the shed, emerging with the Cloak balled under her arm.

“I don’t think I’ll need this,” she decided. “I don’t think anyone is out here. Wait a while before you follow?”

He nodded, watching her walk away with an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he felt he hadn’t told her. Did she understand that everything up until this year had been bollocks? Had he ever actually said he didn’t hold with that Mudblood rubbish? Would she have come to like him if the situation had been different, if they hadn’t been so reliant on one another? Did she blame him still, and did he blame himself?

Chewing at his lip, he took in her retreating form. Her pace was hurried, but that was nothing new. Granger had never moved alluringly, not ever. The unruly mass of her hair was hidden partially from view by her hood, and he thought of how her curls felt beneath his fingers. She looked smaller than he remembered, too small for all of this.

Draco caught his breath when he realized what he was doing, when he realized he was looking at her, memorizing her… just in case.

**

“What on earth is that wretched smell?”

Pansy Parkinson had left Granger’s room, and gone to her favourite place on earth, Zabini’s. She was currently stretched on his bed, biting her tongue to keep from demanding why he’d sent his goons after her, trying to stomach the feel of his hands as they ran up and down her arms. He was seated behind her, and the way his legs looked on either side of hers made her feel ill.

Granted, as reprehensible as Zabini was, Pansy found herself distracted even further by a nasty metallic odour. She had been trying to puzzle out its source, but had failed, time and again.

“It’s a surprise I have for you,” he drawled, trailing his mouth down her neck.

Pansy was disturbed on more levels than she could possibly say. Trying to squash her panic, she gazed around the room again. Then, she applied some weight, and rolled, pulling Zabini with her.

Straddling him, she trailed a finger down his chest. “You’re not cross with me? You seemed so the other day.”

“Never,” he assured her, reaching up to undo her blouse. She endured this humiliation with the sultriest of smiles, going so far as to lean into his hand. “You are my prize, darling. Soon, I will be proud to stand before you, and you… you’ll be ready to give into me.”

He slipped his fingers inside of her blouse, cupping her breast through her bra. Pansy, who thought she might be sick, leaned down and kissed him with all the passion she could pretend to feel. His spare hand moved to her bottom, holding her in place, and the fingers on her breast wiggled behind her, struggling with the clasp of her bra.

Forcing out a laugh, she kissed him one more time and rolled away, knowing he’d see her panicked breathing as something else entirely.

Leaning in such a way that put her ample assets on display, she whispered, “Show me the surprise now, Zabini. How cruel to make me wait!”

He stared at her for a long moment, clearly trying to determine whether she was ready for it. Something on her face must have shown that she was; he smiled, and stood.

“I know I told you this weekend would be the big event,” he said, moving aside a curtain, “but really, he’s ready at any time. Tonight is as good a time as any. Don’t peak, darling.”

Obligingly, she closed her eyes, even though every instinct told her not to. He paused, and then she heard the unmistakable sound of liquid being stirred in a cauldron concealed originally from her view. Merlin, a potion. Pansy felt her breath pick up, and tried to estimate how far away she was from the door. What did that mean--he was ready any time?

“Don’t look,” Zabini repeated. She heard him drink.

Then the bed was dipping, and a hand covered her eyes. She felt his body settle over hers, only it felt different. Strange, because it also felt familiar. His lips pressed against hers, and she sighed into his mouth, as was expected.

Only, apparently, it wasn’t expected.

“I should have known you were still lusting after him, you loose bitch.”

She knew that voice, although the sudden vehemence behind it took her by surprise. Zabini was truly angry. She squirmed, wondering how she was going to get away, how she was going to appease him this time. A truly selfish fear settled in the pit of her stomach. Something had gone very wrong.

"Do you think about him when you're with me? Look at you, look at how much you like to kiss him. You're pathetic. Would you fuck me like this? Open your eyes, and look."

But Pansy couldn't. Trying to angle her head so that she couldn't see him, she threw her weight and tried to roll away. The crack of his hand against her cheek dazed her and drove her head back into the pillow. She tasted blood, and fought hard against the pain. Belatedly, she struggled in earnest, but he was on her, pulling her hands up and away from her head. Pansy went wild, thrashing and kicking up, but Zabini, even in his altered form, was much stronger than she was. In short order, her hands were tied to the bedposts.

“Don’t struggle, darling,” he crooned, touching her sore cheek apologetically with fingers not his own. The shift in his moods terrified her just as much as anything else, and she cringed away from his touch. “You’ll forgive me for this once I’ve proved myself. I just can’t have you running to him, now can I? This is going to be mine. I'm moving before he has a chance to. Isn't that perfect? Someone will come along to free you.”

Pansy watched with growing horror as he climbed off the bed and moved towards the door. She screamed because she could, and he laughed mirthlessly.

“No one can hear you. Wish me luck.”

And he smiled at her with Malfoy’s smile, winked at her with Malfoy’s eyes, and swooped out of the room with Malfoy’s own imposing grace. Yanking at her bound wrists, Pansy kicked her legs and, despite the supposed futility of it all, screamed for all she was worth.

**

Hermione was about to round the corridor that led to her rooms when Malfoy caught her, his face flushed from the exhilaration of rushing in from the grounds. Irritation flashed through her, but she softened immediately, as she had been wont to do lately.

Hugging the Cloak to her chest, she said, “You were supposed to wait a bit longer than that. Did you run all the way inside?”

Malfoy flashed her one of his most charming smiles. “Malfoys never run, Granger,” he said. “I found something to show you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but offered the Cloak. _Malfoys never run_. He was so full of drivel. “Let’s go quickly then. I would like to sleep _some_ time tonight.”

“Don’t you worry, Granger,” Malfoy said, smile never wavering. Placing his hand on her back, he swooped the Cloak over them both. “You’ll sleep soon enough.”

**TBC…**


	17. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, your eyes do not deceive you! lol.

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Sixteen  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: All things come to a head.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author's Notes: No, your eyes do not deceive you! lol.  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

“Now twenty years later to the place I return  
Where I scorned the angels for a passion that burned  
There set in the tree a knot twisted and turned  
The face of a creature hell bound…”

\- Azure Ray’s “The Devil’s Feet”

Pansy struggled for what felt like an eternity against the binding on her wrists. She threw her weight, she tried to sit, she tried to roll, and, most horribly, somewhere along the way she had begun to cry. Desperately, she wondered where Malfoy was-- _her_ Malfoy, not Zabini’s twisted copy. She wondered too who was going to come free her, and when.

Exhausted, she sagged into the bed, trying to stem her tears. Her nose was running, and she had no way of stopping it. Her cheek hurt, and the inside of her lip was bleeding. Forcing herself to breathe, she tried to analyze the situation.

Likely, she’d been stuck here for a good ten minutes. That gave Zabini plenty of time to find Granger. Rationally, she knew they could already be long gone. She knew-- _knew_ \--that, however bright Granger might be, it wouldn’t occur to her not to go with bloody _Malfoy_ , especially a Malfoy infused with Zabini’s abundant deadly charm. She hoped, prayed, and wished that her own Malfoy was okay, that he wasn’t lying bloody in a corridor somewhere, taken out by the surprise of it all. Much like she had been.

Frustrated, she tried her hands again, thrashing this way and that. It was while doing this that she literally sat on the most important thing in the world, the thing she had forgotten in all of her panic: her wand.

“ _Accio_ wand,” she cried, hysteria pitching her voice too high. She felt it get sucked out from underneath her, and then it was in her palm. Thank Merlin.

In short order, she was free. Rubbing at her wrists, she sucked in multiple gulps of air, trying to get herself under control. Then, rising, she looked in the mirror; knew she couldn’t go tearing through the halls looking like she’d just lost a fistfight. Her face hadn’t bruised yet, and her lip wasn’t split on the outside—both to the positive. She made quick work of fixing her robes, and was almost out of the room before it occurred to her.

Steeling herself, she yanked back the curtain and saw the cauldron, still nearly full of its deceptive potion. Zabini had to have been brewing it for months, that sneaky bastard. Feeling rage bubble up inside of her, she lifted her foot and rammed her shoe into it as hard as she could, jumping backwards when the liquid almost hit her. She watched it spread along the floor for a moment, and then she fled, running as though the hounds of hell were on her heels.

**

Draco Malfoy was, inexplicably, in a good mood. He knew all about the doom and gloom he should have been thinking about, and yet he still managed to insert a bit of bounce into his step, happy with the company he’d just had, and happy with getting to fly. Other than everything that was about to explode in his face come the weekend, life seemed to be okay, for the first time in Merlin knew how long.

That all ended with the banging on his door.

Going for his wand, as was customary, Draco loped for the door. He hoped it was Hermione, hoped she had for whatever sly little reason chosen not to use his password; then, he opened it, and, on some melodramatic level, he was sure he died a little. Words couldn’t express what he felt in that minute, what he knew to be true long before Pansy had a chance to open her mouth.

As for Pansy, she was an absolute wreck. Never had Draco seen her like this. Her cheek was turning colour—obviously someone had let her have it—and her eyes were red from crying. Other than her forming bruise, her cheeks were too pale. She was ashen and distraught, moments away from crying again. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her into the safety of his rooms and, without a word, hugged her tight, for both of their sakes. Better not to see her face when she said it.

“Please tell me Granger is with you,” Pansy mumbled into his shirt. When he didn’t answer immediately, she made a sick sound and said, “Oh no.”

A deadly calm was settling over Draco, the sort of peace that came with action, that came with having entirely too much to process. Holding Pansy at arm’s length, he barked, “What’s happened?”

His no-nonsense tone woke up the Slytherin in her. They were used to tough love, every single one of them, and he could actually _see_ her bring out the stiff upper lip.

“Zabini,” she said, tone equally brisk. “He had a potion. He bound me to the bed, took the potion, and went after Granger.”

He thought _fuck_ , but also thought _not entirely unexpected_. Hermione had had her wand outside, he was willing to bet on it, and there was no guarantee that Zabini could have gotten the jump on her. Things mightn’t be as bad as they looked at this exact moment. He forced himself to breathe.

“How long ago?” he asked.

Pansy waffled for a minute, and then said, “Thirty minutes, tops. I came as soon as I could.”

That wasn’t good, but it wasn’t necessarily bad. It was entirely possible that he hadn’t even found her yet; it was also entirely possible that Hermione was on her way to them right now. Fifty fifty, he figured. Hogwarts was not exactly small.

Next, he questioned, “What kind of potion?”

Pansy looked evasive, and Draco didn’t like that, as it meant the answer wasn’t going to go his way. “Polyjuice,” she whispered, at last.

She didn’t have to say anything more than that. One by one, pieces fell into place for Draco. Zabini’s fear of Draco getting the job done would have pushed him into faster action—how didn’t they _see_ that?—and Draco knew as surely as he knew that he was breathing that she would have gone anywhere with him, with Draco. Blinding fury and fear made for a dangerous combination. Cursing, he began to pace his rooms, willing himself to _think_ through the myriad of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Even Pansy cringed out of his way.

_This is wasting time_ , came the calm voice of reason. He needed to stop, but it was a monumental effort. He needed to fucking think.

“Where would Zabini take her?” asked Draco, just as Pansy said, “Perhaps she fought him off?”

Yes, that was a good starting point. Stopping pacing, he rounded on Pansy. Forced himself to be cold, to be detached. Hermione fighting him off was worlds better than Hermione being with Zabini. Yes. There was not necessarily a need to raise the alarm, at least not yet.

“We’ll search the school, and meet back here in half an hour,” he ordered. “They won’t kill her quickly. If Zabini has her, we have a bit of time.”

As Pansy nodded, Draco grimly thought that the not killing her quickly would be the absolute worst thing to survive, if Lucius Malfoy was going to have anything to do with it.

**

By the time Draco made it back to his rooms, he had worked himself into a full-fledged panic. He felt sick, like he might upchuck his dinner all over his rooms. His head was pounding, and his heart was racing. This was all very, very bad.

Having beat Pansy back, he resumed his pacing. The thought of Zabini disguising himself as Draco made him tremendously furious; it also terrified him. He tried not to think of the things Zabini would do to Hermione while wearing his face, and failed abjectly. He had come so far with her—her trust was the sweetest thing in the world to him—and the thought that Zabini was about to undo all of that literally took his breath away. Draco felt like smashing things.

Please let Pansy find her, he thought desperately. Please let Hermione have gotten away.

The hand holding his wand was shaking, and he sucked in an unsteady breath. He absolutely had no idea what to do, and images of Hermione’s pain kept sidetracking him, kept fucking him up.

Zabini would go to Draco’s father, and there was no telling what Lucius Malfoy would do to top what he had already done. It had been almost an hour. Too long. Too fucking long. The polyjuice wouldn’t last much longer; Zabini had to have secured her. Zabini had to know where the senior Malfoy was, and, in spite of everything, that hurt a bit.

Panting, he ran a hand through his hair. He needed help, really bloody needed it. Closing his eyes, he prayed hard for salvation; prayed hard for _Potter_ , to tell the truth. Draco wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He just wasn’t.

Dumbledore’s face flashed through his mind, and he shuddered.

Then there was a knock on his door, and Pansy was before him, shaking her head _no_. Draco groaned, and maybe—just _maybe_ \--hyperventilated a little. Pansy was watching him with a perverse curiosity.

“She’ll be okay, Draco,” she whispered, but he could tell she didn’t really mean it. Pansy knew as well as anyone what to expect at the hands of a Death Eater. Still, for his sake, she added, “Granger’s a fighter. She’s strong.”

Draco stalked away from her, going to the fireplace. He tried to focus on breathing normally, but he was starting to feel light-headed. This kind of panic was totally not on, and didn’t bode well for Hermione. Indecision almost overcame him. His knees were even bloody knocking. Where should he go? Where should he start looking? Was she even still alive?

_No, no, no…_

“If it was me, I would want to come back to Seamus at any cost,” Pansy continued. He heard her moving in his direction, softly so as not to startle him. The weight of her hand pressed into his back. “She’ll want to come back to you. She’ll want to see Potter and Weasley again. She’ll want to live. Draco, she’ll _fight_.”

Yes, yes she would. The realization in its truth was like a balm. She would fight, but she would need help. She would need him. He needed her. They were a team, and they would get out of this together, if he didn’t lose his head.

Taking a steadying breath, he made a decision. “I’m going to go to my mother. She might have some idea of where they’ll take her. She might know where my father is. Perhaps I won’t be… that is to say…”

“You’re not too late,” Pansy said harshly. Then, “What should I do?”

Draco blinked, not having been expecting her help. He found himself oddly touched. Looking about himself, he said slowly, “Granger has a cat. If we’re not back by tomorrow, someone will have to see to Crookshanks. You’ll have to raise the alarm. Tell McGonagall everything. She’ll know what to do.” They should have gone to her ages ago, he thought dully.

“You want me to cat-sit?” Pansy echoed incredulously.

No, Draco didn’t want her to cat-sit at all. He wanted her to hold his hand, go to the Manor with him to speak with his mother, find Hermione, and free her. Alternatively, he wanted her there to remind him if he forgot what side he was on; he wanted her there because she was sneaky and good with curses. He wanted her there because she deserved to be the one to face Zabini.

Smiling grimly, he fitted his hand over the bruise forming on her cheek. “You’ve gone all year without exposing yourself, Pans. Don’t fuck it up now.”

“I hope you hex Zabini’s balls right off.” And she launched herself at him, hugging him hard. “Don’t you not be here tomorrow. Don’t you make me get married without you. Whoever will keep Seamus in line?”

Draco looked down at her face for as long as he dared, trying to keep the panic at bay. He kissed her forehead, and said, “Merlin, woman, the thought of what poor Seamus is going to have to put up with married to you!”

Sometimes, it was too hard to say goodbye. He saw a pale hand lift in a final wave, and closed his door on all of it.

**

The walk off Hogwarts’ grounds took too long, and gave Draco too much time to think. He felt pulled in all directions—what if he had to face his father? What if he couldn’t find his father? What if Hermione was already dead? What had they done to her if she wasn’t? What if he looked upon his father and had to _act_?

Childishly, he was piss his pants afraid of the disappointment that was going to light in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes as realization dawned. Childishly, he was holding onto a subconscious hope that everything and everybody was wrong; that it wasn’t his father behind this madness at all.

Did his father trust him? Did he still believe that Draco was even on his side? _Was_ Draco on his side? What had Zabini said, Zabini who did not trust him?

_I want you to know that I do trust you_.

Hermione’s face, shadowed in the poor lighting of his rooms. Her smile, tentative and sad, as she’d nestled in his arms, as she’d turned to him repeatedly both as her doom and her salvation. The feeling of her lips, both shy and wonderful, as she learned—

He couldn’t kill his father. He was full of shit, Draco was. Hell, he couldn’t kill _Dumbledore_ , and Lucius, despite everything, was blood. He had loved—he _did_ still love—his father more than anyone else in the world. His father was his mentor, his teacher, his guide, and—

_It was always too late. We started this and we’re going to end it_.

\--the only who had tried again and again to show him the right path, the right way to go about empowering the Malfoy name.

_Don’t touch me! Do not touch me. Do not!_

His mother, who loved him regardless of sides. Pansy, his best friend, and _Hermione_ , who needed him, whom he needed right back. It was a different right, a strange right. He knew in his heart that it was the only way to go. Genocide was not right. Rape in the name of war was not right. Anyone laying a hand on his girlfriend—his _girlfriend_ \--against her will was not right. Dark Marks carved in skin were not right. Ordering two Slytherin goons to attack one’s own son was not right.

Draco Malfoy couldn’t kill Dumbledore.

Draco Malfoy couldn’t kill his father.

Taking an unsteady breath, Draco closed his eyes, pictured the closet in Malfoy Manor hard, and was gone with a _pop_.

**

On this night, Draco didn’t tarry in the closet, worrying about wards. He knew his mother had his back—how strange—and he didn’t worry about being sent packing. He grabbed the doorknob, turned, and crashed headlong into a woman hell-bent on getting in the closet herself.

“Draco!” she cried, pressing a hand against her heart.

Draco looked wildly at his mother, who in turn looked quite calm and composed. Her mouth was flattened into a harsh line, and her eyes, the same odd colourless grey as his own, were hard with determination. She was wearing a cloak, armed against the chill of the night, and she was leaving the Manor.

And Draco knew without really knowing how.

“They’re here,” he said dumbly, even as his heart rate sped up to the point that it was almost painful.

“Yes,” said Narcissa. A beat, and then her hands were folding around his. He noted distantly how cold they were. He was sure he was no longer breathing. “The girl is still alive.”

Relief washed over Draco, and he sagged against the door. “Who else is here?”

Even as she spoke, Narcissa was pulling up her hood, hiding her hair. Her expression was grim. “Zabini came as you. You’ll be happy to know that he has a black eye now. She didn’t come easy, not in the end, but he had her wand.” Narcissa paused, breaking eye contact. “Your father showed up this morning. They’re down in the dungeons, all three of them.”

“The dungeons?” he echoed, feeling ill. He tried and failed not to picture Zabini with her, his father with her. Draco Malfoy knew a thing or two about torture, and he had to choke back the bile that caught in his throat. The idea of her being treated thusly was almost too much to bear. Wildly, he caught hold of his mother’s arm. “Where are you going? You can’t _leave_ us here. I need you, Mother. I need your help. I _can’t_ \--”

“Not like this you can’t,” she agreed, voice going hard. “You need to get a hold of yourself. When Zabini came as you, you should have seen the look on your father’s face. He wants it to be you, Draco. He wants this to be your moment.”

A tidal wave of mixed emotions almost drowned Draco. Choking, he started to assert that he couldn’t proceed, but Narcissa pressed a finger to his lips and moved closer, lowering her voice.

“You will remember when I came to you as Rosie that I mentioned once having a lover? I love him still, and I’m going to him now. He will help us, Draco. He always helps us since... since he cannot be with us.” She paused, the look in her eyes softening. “I do not ask you to face your father down, Draco. His skills exceed yours and mine both. All I ask of you is that you stall the proceedings. Go down there, and prove what a Slytherin you really are. We will come back, him and I, but I must go now.”

“Mother, I—”

But again, she silenced him, surprising him by smiling, just a little. Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a thin and elegantly styled wand, handing it to him. He knew whose it was. He knew it was Granger’s wand.

“They don’t mind me,” she said. “Your father left it in his office. Go now, Draco.”

Draco wanted to protest, but Narcissa didn’t give him time. Pressing her hand into his cheek, she whispered, “I love you” and then pushed past him. He heard her Apparate, and then he was alone.

White knights, Draco knew, went in wands blazing. They did not worry about disappointing the bad guy; they did not worry about failing the girl. They absolutely did not worry about losing their supper all over the floor. Their hands did not shake when they readied their wands, and their feet did not shuffle as they moved to meet their fate.

Draco had never wanted to meet his fate. Head hanging, he took a steadying breath, pushed Hermione’s wand up his sleeve, and turned in the direction of the dungeons.

**

They were easy enough to find, loud as they were. Draco’s stomach dropped as he realized they were debating just what to do with her, just when to do what. The dungeons in the Manor were not large, consisting of only three improvised cells; they’d selected the last one, and Draco reached them in a few hurried steps.

Lucius’ back was towards Draco, but he could see Zabini’s self-satisfied face. He could not see Hermione at all, and she certainly wasn’t making any noise. For one moment, fear and anger and pain flooded him; then, adrenaline smoothed it all away. He walked into the cell as if he had every right in the world to be there.

Stall them. He could do that.

“Starting without me, are you?” he asked, absolutely shocked by how… normal he sounded. “Honestly, Zabini, your impatience will get you killed.” He hoped.

Draco knew smugness all his own when Zabini’s face fell, just a little. But then two things happened simultaneously, both of which punctured holes in the wall of adrenaline he’d hidden behind.

Firstly, Lucius Malfoy looked upon his son. Draco had not seen him since Azkaban, and the sight of his father, so imposing and almost otherworldly, clogged his breath in his throat. The expression on Lucius’ face was one of mildly surprised delight mixed with pride. Pride was something Draco was not used to seeing there, and, despite everything, he felt the tiniest thrill.

_My father loves me. My father wants me by his side, not Zabini. My father wants the Malfoy men together._.

Secondly, Draco saw Hermione. It took everything he had in him not to react, not to bat an eye. His stomach pitched wildly, and he knew absolute anger, and absolute injustice.

She was on the cell’s only bed, some five feet from the three of them, and she’d obviously been stunned. She could have fought that, Draco knew, before it happened, but she wouldn’t have seen it coming from someone wearing _his_ face until it was much too late, although his mother was right. Zabini's eye was black.

Hermione's hands and feet were not bound—why bother?—and her clothes, thank Merlin, were undisturbed. As far as Draco could tell, she was as of yet unharmed. It took everything in him not to run to her, not to show his hand right then and there.

Right then and there, he knew what his hand was.

_My father is mad_.

Blinking, he forced himself to look back at Lucius, who was still gazing upon him with pride. Even as he broke out into a cold sweat, Draco forced himself to smile, to be nonchalant. He stunned Muggles every day, said his smile. This was nothing.

“Come to save your girlfriend?” snarked Zabini, crossing his arms. Draco noted his wand was out, although it was not aimed in his direction. So Zabini knew better than to attack the son in front of the father, despite everything.

“I knew you would return to me,” said Lucius, sounding mildly irritated with Zabini’s interruption of their reunion. His hand fell heavy on Draco’s shoulder. “I know she’s tempting, son. Their entire kind is. They’re wanton whores, and we all fall victim occasionally.”

Was that forgiveness in Lucius’ tone? Draco had anticipated suspicion; so, clearly, had Zabini. But that was pride in his father’s eyes, and Draco knew all at once that his father’s desire to bring his son into the Death Eaters’ fold was blinding him to the reality of the whole fucking year.

Draco had a childish urge to cry. This was all so unfair. He had spent his whole entire life working towards seeing that look in his father’s eyes, and now it was an act. Now it was going to be a betrayal. His father was going to be disappointed, and his father was never going to forgive him. Stealthily, he glanced at Hermione, at the way her curls fell across the top of the bed. Her eyes were open, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d been stunned. He swallowed hard.

He had to get Hermione her wand. He had to wake her up. He needed her.

_I'm sorry, Father._

“What are we going to do with her?” God, he sounded like he was _anticipating_ it. Where his mother? Where was this lover?

“Why, anything we want,” said Lucius. Draco watched his father walk to her, watched his father touch her hair with the softness of a lover. Draco felt sick, and it took more than he knew he had in him not to look away. Then, Lucius added, “You’ve done well this year. Would you like the Mudblood first, son?”

Zabini was speaking before Draco even had time to process what his father had said. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Malfoy, but _I_ brought her here and—”

“Silence, Zabini.”

Draco knew that tone, and knew also that it didn’t broke for argument. Feeling light-headed again, Draco stared at Hermione, at his father near her head, and tried to analyze the situation with a certain amount of detachment. As with so many things, he failed. Every instinct screamed for him to curse his father away, to grab her, and to get the hell out of here.

_If you play along, you can get her her wand_.

The cool voice of reason grounded Draco, and he sent Zabini his best smirk. His father was smiling, obviously pleased with Draco’s acceptance of this… gift he was giving him, and he moved away when Draco got closer to Hermione.

Then, things went slightly wrong. Draco had expected them to leave, to afford him some privacy, but Zabini and Lucius merely settled against the wall behind him. Fuck, they were going to _watch_. A horrible dirty feeling settled heavily in his stomach and he gagged, saved from discovery only by the fact that his back was to them.

Swallowing, he made himself touch her legs, her arms. He remembered her in his bedroom, and he wanted to hug her close. Instead, he settled himself between her thighs and dropped his face to her neck.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he whispered.

Then, he traced a hand down her arm until he found her hand, until the sleeve of his robes covered their fingers. It was hard work getting her wand down without discovery, and her own frozen hand wouldn’t hold it. Choking on frustration, he stroked her waist with his other hand, and pretended to keep at whatever they wanted to think he was doing by her neck.

“It’s me. It’s really me,” he continued to whisper, so quietly that his words were little more than gusts of air. “You can break free of this, Hermione, like we practiced. Mind over magic, remember? You’re too strong for this, and I’m not strong at all. I need you to concentrate, Hermione. I need you not to be scared. You can do it.”

Her whole body felt too hard, unnatural in its stunned form. Her face was frozen, her eyes unseeing. He knew she could hear him, but he couldn’t tell if she was really truly there, or if she’d given up. She’d always been a fighter but—

“You don’t have to make love to her, boy,” announced Lucius with a chuckle. “She’s just a Mudblood bitch.”

Draco had no intention of making love to her, or anything of the sort. The wand edged further down his sleeve and up hers; he knew she had to know it was there. The dirty feeling was back, and he could think of nothing past his father’s eyes on his back, of Zabini’s watchful stare.

“Come on, Hermione. Snap out of it. Don’t let them beat us. Don’t let them do this to us.”

He curled his fingers around hers, and shook his arm once, feeling the wand slide free. He used to hand to push it up and out of sight, sliding it between her own unmoving fingers.

“Come on, Malfoy. Fuck her like you did Pansy,” Zabini egged. The sound of cruel laughter made the hair on the back of Draco’s neck rise. “Oh, that’s right. You never fucked Pansy, did you?”

And that was it, right there. The straw that broke the camel’s back, not that Draco liked to compare himself to a camel, of course. Everything—the disgust, the disappointment, the degradation of this all—snapped together and overwhelmed him. He saw the bruise forming on Pansy’s cheek, saw Hermione laying in the snow. He saw Zabini at Draco's spot at the table. He saw it all, and suddenly he wasn’t a good Slytherin. Suddenly, he was just a boy, hurt, betrayed, and very angry.

Draco saw red. Draco saw white. Draco did something he had prided himself on never, ever doing. Draco Malfoy absolutely completely _fucking_ lost it. He felt a wave of rage directed at Zabini, and it carried him away before he could think it through.

In truth, it was kind of an out of body experience. He was experiencing levels of rage he had never before felt, and in truth he felt very little. One minute, he was finishing the careful work of shoving Hermione’s wand up her sleeve; the next, he was staring down Zabini, his wand shoved in his nemesis’ throat. He honestly didn’t remember moving.

“ _Crucio_ ,” he said, as calmly as if he was saying _two sugars in my tea, please_. “You absolute bastard.”

Zabini dropped like a stone, writhing on the ground at Draco’s feet. It had been a long time since Draco had been instructed on the use of Unforgivables, and the wave of darkness he felt left him feeling absolutely empty—for a moment. Then, regaining his earlier rage, he drove his foot into Zabini’s ribs, perfect when dark curses just weren’t enough.

“You don’t touch her,” he shouted, gesturing blinding at Hermione. “You don’t touch Pansy. You don’t hit women. They’re not your fucking _toys_.” Another kick, for good measure.

The problem with losing it completely was that it had a tendency to narrow one’s focus. Whilst giving Zabini the ass kicking of a lifetime, Draco had entirely forgotten about one person: his father. Draco was right in the middle of saying, “You fight me like a man, you fucking worthless piece of shit” when another voice yelled an Unforgivable right back.

Pain overtook Draco. It was not the first time he’d felt the full effects of the Cruciatus Curse, but experience didn’t numb the pain. It felt like his rib cage was going to shatter, like his heart was going to crumble in on itself. Pressure built up behind his eyes and in his ears, threatening to crush his skull. He couldn’t remain standing, he just couldn’t.

Lucius didn’t leave him under it for long. Shaking his head, he said, “You never could play nice with others, could you, Draco?” Sadness weighed down his tone. He knew his father saw the truth, at last.

Gasping for air, he spared a glance at Zabini, who was still on the ground, panting as well. Then, Draco looked up at his father. Icy fire burned in Lucius’ eyes, and his mouth was set in a firm line. Draco experienced a completely childish urge to grovel, to grab onto the bottom of his robs and say _I didn’t mean to say ‘don’t touch her’. I didn’t mean to Crucio your new golden boy. I didn’t mean any of this whole year. Point me in Hermione’s direction. I’ll finish her off._

But he didn't mean that, and so Draco said nothing, not even when his father squatted over his prone form. They had lost, he and Hermione. He had blown it, and she wasn’t moving on the bed. It was over. He was a failure. His father was looking at him with disgust. His mother was going to be let down. Hermione was going to die, all because Draco had lost his temper. Tears clouded his vision, and he moaned, still in pain from his father’s curse.

“I can’t save you this time, boy. Nothing will stop Voldemort’s wrath.” To Draco’s surprise, Lucius sounded genuinely remorseful about turning his only child over to the Dark Lord. Disappointment hung heavy from his tone. “Your betrayal is unforgivable. Your cowardice is unprecedented. I can’t look upon you and look upon a son of mine.”

Even after everything, the words cut like knives. Forcing himself to maintain eye contact, Draco choked out, “You _raped_ her. I can’t look upon you and look upon my father.” And then, because there was nothing left to say, he turned his face away and added, “Just end it yourself. I’m ready.” Closed his eyes, because he wasn’t.

There was movement from behind Lucius’ shoulder; Draco heard shifting. Then, clear as day and strong as ever, a feminine voice shouted a spell Draco did not know. Zabini, who had struggled to his feet, went down hard, clutching at his belly.

Something flashed across Lucius’ face, and it was certainly arrogance that had him ripping Draco’s wand from his hands before turning to face Hermione, who had her wand trained on him, and was in the process of rising from the bed.

Relief and fear warred within Draco. Scuttling backwards away from his father, he gave Hermione a mental cheering—never in a million years had he thought that mind over magic shit would work. He closed his eyes on pride, trying to regain his strength so that he might help… in some wandless way.

And Hermione, Merlin love her, was angry. Fury was shooting from her eyes like sparks; she didn’t even look at Draco.

“Don’t touch Draco,” she barked. “Don’t touch _me_.”

_Don’t waste time fighting with words_ , he urged, looking at Zabini. Whatever she had done seemed effective, as Zabini was gurgling and still hugging his stomach. What Draco could do was kick the other boy’s wand out of reach, and he did just that.

“Don’t touch you?” Lucius laughed, pointing his own wand in her direction. “But you seemed to like it, you stupid Mudblood. You would have let me take you all on your own. You’re a worthless slut, meaningless to everyone. Why should I even bother fighting with you?”

Draco knew when a Kiss was coming. So apparently did Hermione.

“ _Expelli_ \--”

“ _Levicorpus_!”

And Hermione was up, just like that, hanging upside down in the air. She did not drop her wand, but it threw her. Lucius circled her as Draco tried to struggle upwards into a sitting position. He didn’t have his wand, and Zabini’s wouldn’t work right, but—

“ _Liberacorpus_!”

Hermione hit the ground hard, and was clearly addled. Draco watched his father move to stand over her, and he was on his feet just as Lucius bent over Hermione.

“I could do it again, you weak bitch.”

A battle cry erupted from Hermione’s mouth, and, even though she was holding her wand, she fought like a Muggle. More accurately, she lifted her leg hard and fast, catching Lucius off guard with a direct hit with her knee to the family jewels. Despite everything, even Draco winced, but then Hermione was on her feet, wand levelled at his father.

“Do it,” said Lucius. “Do it right here in front of my son.”

Hermione made a crucial error then. She hesitated. It was all Lucius needed to gain the upper hand. Speaking so fast it sounded like a blur of noise, he shot Hermione off her feet and into Draco, sending them both to the floor.

“You can die in his arms,” offered Lucius, smirk sardonic. “No more child’s play.”

Hermione made a noise, small but not defeated. Elbowing herself away from Draco, she found her wand again. Found his father in its sights. Draco froze, paralyzed with fear.

“I hope you rot in hell,” she whispered.

They spoke it simultaneously just as a crash of noise came from the doorway to the cell. Green light blinded him, and he suspected Hermione to fall lifeless into his arms, suspected his father to fall back just as much. Only nothing happened, her spell immobilizing his and locking them together. He stared at Zabini’s wand and was just about to make a move, when another voice, deep and so very familiar, ended it all.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Hermione stiffened in surprise, but Draco was watching his father. He saw shock there, and then he saw nothing as the life inside his father was snuffed out like a candle’s flame. For a moment, his father was very still, and then he was falling to the floor.

“No!” cried Draco, pushing Hermione away. He crawled to his father on all fours, turning him over. Everything fell away, and he was a scared child holding onto his father. Tears blinded him, and he began to sob unabashedly. Even his relief that Hermione was there behind him did nothing to dull the pain, the loss. Everything had gone so wrong for years, everything had been left wrong for too long. His father was mad, and now his father was gone.

Either way this ended, Draco had been set up to lose.

Dimly, he heard his mother’s voice bind and silence Zabini. There was a sweep of material, the whisper of fabric, and Snape’s hands were pulling Draco backwards and into his chest. Draco fought, but only momentarily. The ramifications of Snape’s presence totally lost on him, Draco turned to the man who was once his mentor and sobbed into his cloak.

"Neither one of you deserves death on your hands," Snape said, voice hard.

“Draco,” said Hermione, and she was crying too. He spared her a glance, saw the fear on her face, saw the expected rejection, but she was a Gryffindor and she was brave. She crawled too—why bother standing—and Snape let him go.

Sobbing still and feeling absolutely beyond caring, Draco sank into Hermione’s shaking arms and stared at the body of his father.

Hermione Granger was alive. Lucius Malfoy was dead. It was over.

He clung to her fingers, and closed his eyes on the scene before him.

  
**TBC...**


	18. Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drug my heels with this, not going to lie. It's an odd thing to see such a final 17/17, especially since I've been working on this for three years! Words truly can't express how much I enjoyed this, and how much I appreciate all you guys for keeping me going. :)

Title: Beautiful Things Can Come From The Dark  
Chapter: Seventeen  
Author: Edie  
Rating: R  
Story Summary: He found her, broken and bleeding, and it would change everything.  
Chapter Summary: There were endings, and beginnings.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Author's Notes: I drug my heels with this, not going to lie. It's an odd thing to see such a final 17/17, especially since I've been working on this for three years! Words truly can't express how much I enjoyed this, and how much I appreciate all you guys for keeping me going. :)  
Previous Parts: [Here](http://yesterday4.livejournal.com/97079.html).

__

"Move on move on  
It's like the clock is pacing  
The break of dawn and our hearts are racing..."  
\- Azure Ray's "New Resolution

 

A flash of green light and it was over. Hermione Granger, his girlfriend, was alive. Lucius Malfoy, his father, was dead.

The next two days passed in a blur for Draco. He elected to stay at Malfoy Manor, where he further decided to stay in the darkness of his bedroom, a pathetic bundle of upset boy hidden by his blankets. He had visitors: his mother was in and out, Snape came to say goodbye, and Hermione poked her head in for a moment that was so fraught with awkwardness that Draco was almost glad to see her go.

In the dark solitude of his bedroom, Draco forgot what a monster his father had truly been. He forgot about everything Lucius had put him through all year. He forgot everything, until he was just a boy without a father.

**

The funeral was held four days after the event, and was not exactly the sort of glory-filled affair that Lucius Malfoy had probably desired. Narcissa had not invited any Death Eaters; in truth, Narcissa had not invited anyone.

Pansy Parkinson showed up just as it started, immaculate as always in black robes. Draco supposed she must have talked to his mother at some point; as far as he was concerned, one minute she wasn’t there, and the next, her hand was sliding into his, applying light pressure. Draco didn’t spare her a glance, watching instead as the dirt hit his father’s coffin, hiding it forever from sight.

_Lucius Malfoy, 1954 – 1998_ , read his tombstone. _Beloved husband and father._.

Afterwards, Pansy led him away from the scene, loping idly across the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

“Hermione apologizes for your loss,” she told him, after they’d gone over a ridge and could no longer see the family cemetery. “She also said she’s sorry for being unable to attend the funeral.”

Draco nodded in acknowledgement of her words. Never in a million years had he expected Hermione to show. In her shoes, he would only have come to dance on Lucius’ grave, which Draco wouldn’t have appreciated, despite everything.

Pansy also told him that his mother had been to see McGonagall, according to her sources. It was rumoured but not confirmed by Hermione that Lucius and Zabini had been involved in an elaborate plot to kidnap and murder a member of the Golden Trio, although, according to Pansy, Zabini’s memory of that night was said to be addled—Pansy, with a wry smile, suspected spell work. Draco and Narcissa had been unaware of the plot, it was said, and were beyond surprised when Snape, back on the lamb, had shown up and done the older Malfoy in. Mother and son had then assisted, supposedly, in helping get Granger free. Zabini was on his way to Azkaban, although neither Pansy nor Draco put much stock in the prison’s security.

Mrs. Parkinson, continued Pansy, had ordered that all attempts to woo Zabini come to an immediate halt. It had been pointed out repeatedly that Draco was suddenly a lot richer and not exactly an outcast any longer, if Pansy caught her mother’s meaning.

Pansy, being absurdly smitten with Seamus, had said, “Yes, ma’am” and thought _no way in hell_.

“You’re going to come back, aren’t you, Draco?” Pansy asked, stopping walking to face him. “You can come back with me tonight.”

And Draco Malfoy, despite everything, knew that was exactly what he was going to do. He had a year to finish, exams to take, and a girlfriend he missed.

Life, as it was, had to go on.

**

The first day back was rocky. Everyone was looking, which he’d been expecting, and the Prophet had gotten a hold of the story, which was also not much of a surprise. He made it through the day in a self-imposed blur, not thinking, and not acting. Hermione, whom he’d hoped would be waiting for him upon his return, was nowhere to be found. This led Draco to believe that she was angry with him, and that his grief over his father’s death had alienated her, and made her doubt his loyalty. McGonagall had smiled at him when he’d passed her in the corridor; the whole world felt off its axis.

He skipped supper in favour of sulking in his rooms. Sulking was a Malfoy trait at which Draco had never failed. In true dramatic fashion, he extinguished all the lights in his rooms and sat alone on his couch, thinking that he was without a girlfriend and without a father.

Everything, obviously, was coming up roses.

There was a knock on his door at quarter past seven, which Draco ignored, thinking it was Pansy. After a second, though, someone gave the password and then there was Hermione, standing in the entrance looking uncomfortable and out of sorts.

“Hello,” he said, without moving. Perhaps he owed her an apology, but the words died on his tongue. Sniffing, he looked down at his lap and pathetically wished she’d leave. There was wallowing to be done, after all.

However, this was Hermione Granger, who did not have a history of doing what Draco wanted. Chewing at her lip, she waffled for a moment, and then joined him on the couch, sitting an appropriate and cold, in Draco’s opinion, distance away. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye, taking in her horrible hair and dowdy appearance, and had to swallow hard. He really _had_ missed her.

“Hello,” she returned.

There was a very awkward moment after that. Draco had never done awkward well, and so he set up ignoring her, which he did passably. He was about to be dumped, he knew, and he just wished she’d get it over with. He was not going to apologize. He just wasn’t. A son was allowed to grieve his father. Paranoia and insecurity wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket, and they were familiar emotions. They were things he knew.

Cold fingers touched his hand, and didn’t stop touching until he’d opened his palm and let her entwine them with his. This was unexpected, but then Gryffindors were abnormally softhearted fools. Maybe she was trying to brace him for the bad news. He sighed long and withering.

Hermione took a deep breath. This was it. He turned his face away.

“Are you cross with me?” she rushed, sounding all sorts of anxiety-ridden.

Okay, not what he’d been expecting. Shooting her a confused look, he said, “Excuse me?”

“Cross with me,” she repeated, sounding cross with him. “Over… over everything. I truly am sorry, Draco. I never wanted your father to die. Well, I did, but not specifically because he was your father.” She trailed off with a huff.

Draco was momentarily too surprised to answer. And then, laughing a little at how ridiculous they were, he caught her in a hug, and then didn’t let go.

“You silly girl, I thought you were cross with me,” he admonished, pressing a kiss into her curls.

“What? No! I knew you’d feel bad. Of course you’d feel bad. I’m not made of stone, Draco.”

Draco was not really used to talking about his feelings, but he forced himself to say, “I still feel bad. I’m going to feel bad for a while. And not just because he’s dead, but because of everything he did before that. It’s strange. I never really knew him at all.”

Hermione nodded, tickling his chin with her hair. “It’s entirely his loss, Draco. Not knowing you, I mean.”

That warmed him on the inside, which was a strange and unusual feeling. Not very Slytherin. “Thanks, Hermione.”

He squeezed her again, and she didn’t move away. Instead, she sighed and cuddled a little closer.

“I knew Zabini wasn’t you,” she said abruptly. “Granted, it took me just a little too long to figure it out. He kept saying these ridiculous things, which I just know you actually do think. All this rot about what Malfoys do and don’t do. Honestly, it was like going around with your stereotype. I know it’s not really the done thing, but good job with the Cruciatus Curse.” She offered him a tentative smile. _We’re good_ , it said.

“You kicked my father in the balls,” he said, somewhat incredulously.

But it was too soon to talk about it, and Hermione said nothing past that, sensing perhaps that he wasn’t ready to discuss his father’s final moments. Idly, Draco began to stroke her shoulder, feeling a completely unacceptable and unmanly urge to blather on about how upset he was. To unload on someone who claimed to like him and, therefore, had to listen.

“What now?” she murmured, letting her hand fall to rest on his thigh. “I mean, school is out soon, and then what?”

_Are you going to go with Potty and the Weasel_ he wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue, even as cold fingers tickled at his heart. Instead, he said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do after Hogwarts. Go to the Manor for a while, figure things out. You’ll just have to booty call me there, Hermione. Err… if you’re okay going there.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not booty calling you. _You_ can booty call me.”

He tickled her side, and she giggled, elbowing at him.

“Oh, get off!” she exclaimed, rising. “I’m going to work on homework. You’re nothing but bad news.”

She pointed her finger at him in an absolutely swotty manner, winked, and then headed for the door. Draco watched her go, feeling equal amounts of right and wrong—feeling, in truth, quite uncertain about his place in her world now that all was said and done, despite her assurances.

**

Pansy Parkinson was almost at the classroom when hands grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her into a dark alcove, hidden from view. She panicked on the inside—after her year, who could blame her—but then she saw Seamus’ face, smiling in the darkness.

“Is it true what they’re saying about Zabini?” he asked, just a touch breathlessly.

Pansy didn’t really know what they were saying about Zabini in Gryffindor, so she just told the truth.

“Draco used an Unforgivable on him,” she announced, wrapping her arms around Seamus’ shoulders. “His mother covered it up though, Seamus, so hush hush.” Teasingly, she pressed her finger into his lips, leaning into him.

“Good,” was Seamus’ harsh reply. “I would have loved to see the look on that bugger’s face. Good on Malfoy. Perhaps I could grow to like the sod after all.”

Pansy was struck by a vision of Seamus and Draco sitting around discussing Quidditch, and felt her heart soar. In a perfect world, it just might go down that way; then, Pansy was feeling strangely optimistic, and rather like a perfect world could be hers after all. The feeling frightened her—wasn’t there some Muggle saying about all good things coming to an end, or nothing gold could stay, or something sentimental like that—but she stomped down those negative feelings, determined to enjoy herself for once.

“What am I going to do now that I have you all to myself?” Seamus asked, leaning so that their noises touched. “You have nowhere and no one to run off to.”

“Well, I do have class,” pointed out Pansy, although she ruined it all by tipping her chin so that their lips bumped, innocently and accidentally, of course. “Also, Mother has informed me to return to pursuing Malfoy.”

“That tosser! And just when I felt like I might warm to him.” Seamus laughed. “Thank God I can finally see the end of this year!”

Pansy grabbed onto his tie and pulled him closer, if that was even possible. “Are we going to get married right off?”

“Couldn’t wait another minute, love,” he affirmed. “Lest Malfoy sweep in and carry you off into the sunset.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, and then whispered conspiringly, “He’s dating Hermione Granger, you know.”

Seamus’ eyes almost bugged right out of his face. Giggling, she caught his cheeks and kissed him, deciding then and there that it could stand in for their first kiss; certainly, it was their first kiss without anything hanging over their heads.

Exhaling against her lips, Seamus tugged her further into the alcove, shifting so that, in the unlikely event of someone happening upon them, only his back would be visible at first glance. Eagerly, she helped him push aside her robes so that he could undo the buttons of her blouse. She wanted to promise him that she had never enjoyed this with Zabini, never once; wanted to tell him that he was still the only one she’d ever been with. Only Seamus was making contented noises against her chest, and she was wishing for more privacy to do things properly, wishing for—

“Do you want to do it right here?” she asked, gauging that they were mostly hidden. And, after all, she had a reputation to preserve. Teasingly, she tugged his tie, yanking him further back into the alcove. “I am the Slytherin slut, you know.”

Seamus made a shocked noise before laughing throatily. “Pansy Parkinson,” he murmured, “I really do love you.”

That was all she needed to hear.

**

Draco saw them in the corridor on the way to Arithmancy, bogged down by a gaggle of Gryffindors, returning the conquering heroes. Had he known what his best mate was up to at that very moment, he might have been happy that this was all he saw. Still his heart clogged up his throat and momentarily stopped beating. Instinct made him want to go for his wand—a welcome home hex was forming on his tongue—but instead he ducked back, hidden by the crowd and what he assumed was a safe distance.

In truth, he wasn’t surprised to see them at all. The news of Hermione’s abduction had spread through the Wizarding World like wildfire; in truth, he was surprised they hadn’t made it here sooner. He remembered feverishly wanting them to show up, remembered wanting to pawn off responsibility, but now all he wanted was for them to disappear.

It would be the end, he knew. Hermione hadn’t breathed a word of _after_ , of what she would do when all of this was over, but Draco knew it would be big and glorious, because Draco knew Hermione. He supposed he hadn’t asked because he hadn’t wanted to know, but now they were here, and exams were two weeks from today; he knew they would sweep her off into the sunset, knew too that that was right.

Still, it didn’t stop him from feeling saddened. He watched Potter clap Longbottom on the back, watched Weasley make eyes at that insipid Brown girl. It looked funny, just the two of them. They were a trio, and they needed their third.

As for Draco… He hugged his bag to his chest, and huffed out a sigh, feeling lost and uncertain about everything. Pansy was going to go off with Finnigan, the Dark Lord would be after Draco’s head, the Golden Boys did not need or want him, and school was out soon. He had no father. He had no guidance. He had no ultimate goals. Soon, no matter what Hermione claimed, he would have no girlfriend.

Feeling dangerously close to wallowing in self-pity once again, Draco turned his back on the crowd before he could see Hermione’s long overdue reunion. Without so much as a peep, he slipped into the classroom and headed to his seat.

**

That evening, Hermione wasn’t in the Great Hall, and neither was most of the Gryffindor table. Draco was annoyed, both at Potter and Weasley's appearance and at the fact that Hermione had gone strangely mum. Not so much of a peep had he heard from her about her mates' return, and it chafed at his feelings, not that he would ever admit it.

From her seat beside him, Pansy whispered, “Trouble in paradise?”

He thought of everything working out for her, and childishly chose to ignore how much she’d gone through to get there. “Oh sod off, Pansy. There’s nothing worse than a smugly happy woman. I find I have very little patience for you at this point in time.”

She batted her eyes at him, smirking. Then, she leaned close and lowered her voice so that no one could hear her outside of him.

Placing a hand on his arm, she whispered, “We’re doing it after school lets out, at a Muggle church in Dublin. Mother will suspect that I’ve run off, of course, but she’ll never expect that I’d lower myself enough to get married with the Muggles.”

“And who could blame her,” commented Draco, stabbing at his meat.

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy,” she hissed, before continuing, voice still low and secretive. It said much for how very Slytherin they all were that whispered conversations could go unnoticed. “His mother is going to set it all up. We’ll be staying in Muggle Dublin until the day of the wedding. No magic, no nothing. No way of tracing us. I’m only telling you so that you’re prepared, you see. I will owl you the morning of the wedding with the location and the time, but you won’t hear from me until that very moment. I would like very much for you to come. Seamus is bringing Dean Thomas, and… I don’t know… you’re rather more in my camp, aren’t you?”

Before Draco could comment either way, Pansy looked down and muttered in a rush, “You may bring _her_ as well, although I truly detest sharing you.”

At that, Draco broke out into a full-blown smile, elbowing Pansy in a chummy manner. “Did you tell Seamus what your mother said? Do you want to snog right here? Get him all riled up?”

She whacked him hard on the arm at that, but after a moment, she joined his laughter. Once she’d calmed, she whispered, “There really _isn’t_ trouble in paradise, Draco. I ran into your precious little girlfriend in the corridor, and she couldn’t find you. Gave me this.”

Smiling saucily, she shoved a folded piece of parchment onto his lap, out of sight from the others. Draco didn’t want to read it in front of her, but after a moment, curiosity got the better of him. Glowering at her for good measure, he unfolded the parchment and saw Hermione’s hasty scrawl.

_I’m sure you know of Ron and Harry’s arrival, and I’m also sure you think I’m keeping secrets. I honestly didn’t know until this morning, and now you’ve disappeared. I’m going to visit with them and the rest of Gryffindor at supper, but I’ll see you tonight,”_ it read.

To the point, his Hermione, but he did feel a little better known that she hadn’t forgotten about him completely. He wondered what she and her lame little friends would get up to at supper, and couldn’t think of a single thing exciting—outside, that was, of plotting his murder. With a twinge of panic, he wondered what Hermione would tell those two. Perhaps it was best to pack his bags now.

**

Rather than hang around waiting for Hermione to be free or to force his company on Pansy, Draco escaped that night to somewhere that was both a place of nightmares and great personal realizations for him: he went up as high as he could in the Astronomy Tower, relishing in the chill of the night air against his cheeks. Feeling out of sorts and just all around miserable, he sat down and stared off into the abyss, pondering the events that had happened between that fateful night and now. He suspected that Dumbledore might have been amused, if not out and out proud. One could never tell with that crazy old coot, Draco decided, rather fondly. Still, every second of it had been impossibly hard, right from the moment Draco had stared down his wand and couldn't act.

A noise behind him near the stairs alerted Draco to the fact that he was not alone. Before he could turn properly to assess who his intruder was, an all too familiar voice said, “I thought you’d come here eventually now that everything’s in order. Rather morbid of you, though.”

An old dislike, tempered but not erased with the passing of time, set Draco’s teeth on edge. Deciding not to grace this intruder with even so much as a glance, he spit out, “Well, if it isn’t Harry Potter, conquering hero.”

Potter made a noise of irritation, but surprised Draco by moving to sit beside him. Time—and stress, Draco reckoned—had not been kind to Harry. He looked, at the very least, twenty-one. Repressing a passing urge to flick him right on that stupid scar, Draco crossed his arms and proceeded to ignore his once nemesis.

For about ten seconds. “Although,” he mused, “I’m not really sure _what_ you’ve conquered.”

There was silence then, creeping over both boys and making Draco feel tense and on edge. He just knew Potter was thinking of the most biting thing to say, and he had to ready himself to say something back. Seconds yawned into minutes, and it took a great deal of self control not to throw something stupid out there just for the point of speaking.

“I won’t apologize for your father,” Potter said at last, tone tight. “I am not in the least bit sad that he’s dead.”

He would have flinched had that come from anyone else; instead, Draco felt his lip quirk up. “That’s good because I feel _exactly_ the same way about yours.”

Potter, Draco noticed through surreptitious glances from the corner of his eye, did not flinch either. He merely shook his head a little at Draco’s remark and made a strange huffing sound—always long suffering, Potter. With some disgust, Draco wondered if they were growing used to each other and their respective insults. Troubling thought.

“It’s been lovely to see you,” said Draco, at the exact same moment Potter said, “Hermione told me everything.”

At that, Draco did flinch. Turning in on himself slightly, he abandoned all covert attempts at glaring at Potter, looking instead out over the night sky. It felt very strange to have the secret out—telling Pansy had been hard enough. He’d gotten used to a world in which he and Hermione needed no one outside of one another—how disconcerting to have that change.

Only of course it would change. Potter and Weasley, despite how he felt about them, were after all her best mates. It would have been more inexcusable in the long run, he supposed, if she had chosen to tell them nothing. That didn’t excuse the fact that Potter knowing what his father really was—what _he_ himself really was, and what he had done—any more pleasant.

If Potter decided to hex him, he supposed that on some level he deserved it.

Not really knowing where to start, Draco muttered, “Well then. Best to get it over with, eh? Hit me with your best shot, Potter. I won’t fight you.”

Had Draco bothered to look at Potter, he would have seen his blink of confusion. Then, he was shaking his head, but Draco didn’t see that either. A moment passed, a beat of time, and then Potter said, “You think I came up here to hex you? You really are daft, Malfoy.”

Draco did look at him then, and saw an oddly resolved look settle on the other boy’s features. He didn’t look angry, not really, or at least not at Draco; instead, he looked resigned and weary.  
  
“It’s my fault,” murmured Potter, looking away.

And that was just so friggin’ Boy Who Lived that Draco had to snort. “Oh yes, Potty, do take the blame for this as well. Not everything that goes wrong ever has something to do with you, you know. You’ve always been like this too. It’s very tiresome, and I have much better things to do with my time than sit here and say sweet comforting little nothings to you.”

An eye roll was all he got for his comment, but Potter had always been persistent. “They were trying to get to me, Malfoy. How does that make it not my fault?”

Only Harry bloody Potter was not going to take the blame away from Draco Malfoy. Sneering, he pointed out, “You idiot, it was my father and then it was me.”

The corner of Potter’s mouth turned up in begrudging acknowledgement. “Yes, Malfoy, it _was_ you. I ought to hex you into next year for how much worse you made it for her initially, but then…” He trailed off, looking puzzled, before plunging forward with that reckless Gryffindor relentlessness. “But then I’m not sure she would have been able to do it without you either. She was here all alone and—”

“She was not alone,” he snapped. “Just because Pans and I don’t rank very highly on your list of Acceptable People doesn’t mean—”

“—you did what Ron and I couldn’t. So. Thank you, I guess.”

That rather took the wind right out of Draco’s indignant little sails. It wasn’t very manly to titter with nerves, nor was it a very Malfoy trait to even _have_ nerves, so Draco tried his damnedest to turn it into a gruff sort of cough.

“You’re… uhh… welcome,” he stammered, hating himself more than a little. Draco Malfoy didn’t stammer. Sweeping recoveries were in order. “So, what’s this then? You’re giving me your blessing to date one of you sainted three?”

“I guess so.” A sigh. “Although you might want to consider avoiding Ron for a few weeks.”

Harry Potter didn’t sound happy, which cheered Draco up immensely. He’d also decided to use that moment to make his exit, which made Draco even happier.

Looking for all the world like he was sucking on lemons, Potter added, “I assume all this means you’re on the outs with Voldemort. If you decide to get involved with us, we’ll have a place for you.”

Aww. Draco sent Potter his sweetest most heartfelt smile, before dissolving into a healthy round of snickers. Trying not to bat his eyes to the point of over kill, he said, “See, Potty, we’ll be best mates in no time!”

Potter could barely contain his shudder; Draco felt rather gleeful. Still smiling sweetly, he called, “Do tell Hermione I’m retiring to my rooms, won’t you?”

“Ugh,” said Potter. “I might have to hex you after all.”

“You can try,” Draco said, leaning back on his elbows. “You can always try.”

**

When Draco returned to his rooms, oddly buoyed by his conversation with Potter, Hermione was lounging on the couch reading—surprise, surprise—a textbook. She was still clad in her uniform; Draco followed the line of her stocking up her calve as millions of wimpy butterflies exploded in his stomach. He was feeling sentimental and high on adrenaline; he had faced down Harry Potter and lived.

“I’m going to change my password,” he announced, stalking in her direction. “Now that it’s not a matter of life and death each time you visit, a bloke might enjoy a bit of privacy now and then.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose and leaned up enough to catch his tie between her fingers. Giving it a good tug, she giggled when Draco gamely gave in, half landing on top of her. The butterflies in his stomach flew lower and ceased to be quite so wimpy. Dropping his head, he landed a few open mouthed kisses on her neck and blouse covered chest, relieved beyond belief not to have to worry about impending doom for once. Despite her rather weak attempts at wiggling away, he managed to get her situated on his lap.

“Oh, cut it out!” she said, but she said it with a laugh, even as she turned her face so that his kisses only caught her cheek. Shrugging mentally, Draco made do.

“I’ve had a really awful week,” he pointed out, past the point of caring when it sounded ridiculously whiny. Hoping he wasn’t about to startle her, he got his hands up under her skirt and onto her arse. With effort, he moved her up and forward, nuzzling his face into her breasts. As he had yet to be told to bugger off, he decided things were looking up.

Hermione made a disconcerted noise—Draco, in response, eased his grip on her hips—but then she rocked forward, sighing agreeably. Draco tried and failed not to move, choking out a rather strangled noise and grabbing a handful of fabric near her back. She laughed again, soft and throaty, and he felt the coolness of her hands on his neck, on his cheeks. Those hands snaked down in between their bodies, tugging at his shirt and at his buttons.

Draco swallowed.

“This alright?” he made himself ask, even though now she was the aggressor.

She pulled back to gaze at him; he gazed right back. There was something different about her, something lighter and freer. She’d been to hell and back, and she’d survived. There was a strange resolve to the set of her mouth; she was not fixed, not really because it couldn’t be as easy as that, but she was _fighting_. She was rallying, and it was what Draco had always found appealing in her.

Perhaps Potty and the Weasel were good for her or the healing process or something, although it was hard to believe they could be good for anything. Perhaps she’d needed them to remind her of her strength, of her purpose. Flashes of the old Hermione Granger lit up her gaze, and it was only about the sexiest thing Draco had seen ever.

Or it was until she’d divested him of his shirt, and started in on her own buttons. Blushing bright red, she undid her shirt so that he could steal glances of her bra, green in colour incidentally, before she pressed her chest to his with a contented sigh.

“Yes,” she said, sounding both surprised and surprisingly breathless. “Just hold me like this, Malfoy.”

And Draco, content on what was enough for her and for him right now, snuck his hands up under her shirt to press his palms to her back and sealed his lips to hers, glorifying in the movements of her hips, and in this second chance that they’d been given.

Sometime later, with Hermione still sprawled across his lap but once again occupied with his textbook, Draco felt inclined to say, “A bit of warning might have been nice before sending me to the dogs.”

Hermione’s eyebrow went up. “What, Draco? Can’t handle a little Harry? I kept Ron away for the time being, although he’s not exactly angry with _you_ per say.”

Draco thought of things to say, such as _I was born to handle Harry_ or _sure Ron’s attempts to do me in would have been a poor showing… get it?_ , but said instead, “He offered me a position on your side. That’s good for a bloody lark, isn’t it? Draco Malfoy, fighting the good fight?”

Looking up from her textbook, Hermione smiled and touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “You’ve got to do something, Draco. You’re excellent with potions. It’s hard to think you wouldn’t make a stellar addition. You might even be the next best thing. After me of course.”

He snorted at that, toying at her hair idly. He didn’t mean to consider it, really he didn’t, but the novelty of an official switch in sides appealed to him. Wouldn’t it be sticking it to the Dark Lord, wouldn’t it be sticking it to his father, wouldn’t it be—

“Might make Mum proud,” he murmured.

And it might make up for everything, but he didn’t say that part aloud.

“And Pansy,” added Hermione, her smile so full of faith in him that it flayed at his resolve. Then, abruptly, she wrinkled her nose. “What do you think of all that? Your mum and Snape?”

“Hmph,” said Draco, with a shudder. Although, he reasoned, somewhere deep inside he wasn’t really _that_ put off. Surely his mother deserved a second chance at happiness, at freedom. If they all survived the war, that was.

Hermione wasn’t done. “Maybe they’ll have a baby, and you can have a brother with long black greasy hair. Wouldn’t that be just the thing?”

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he laughed, despite himself, "for insulting the Malfoy spare."

Belatedly, he realized that this non-existant baby wouldn't be the spare, not really, or would he? Thinking of money and family legacy, Draco made a mental note to research inheritance and lines of succession. Papers would have to be drawn. Troubled, Draco decided to ask Hermione.

But her face had gone serious. “It doesn’t matter to me,” she said, “if you choose to fight, although I think that you will. Just so you know.”

Pushing aside silly thoughts of heirs and spares, Draco pretended to be pleased, leaning forward again to kiss her. However, deep down inside, he wasn’t sure at all that it didn’t matter a great deal to him, whether or not he chose a side officially. Could he do it, he wondered, could he honestly cast off his childhood _that_ much?

Then, as her lips danced across his, he realized something artlessly simple: somewhere along the way, somewhere along the twisted dark roads this year had led him down, hadn’t he already?

**

From his designated spot by his owner’s thigh, Crookshanks was lulled by the rumbling of the train, and of the familiar sounds of it coming to a stop. With the lazy leisure of a cat, he observed the two people in the compartment with him.

The boy, who was Irish, had talked most of the trip, filling Hermione Granger in on a matter of utmost importance. It didn’t escape the cat’s notice that the boy was nervous—his smile had a hysterical glint to it, and he kept wiping his palms on his trousers. Being more in tune with Hermione’s emotions, the cat was also aware of her excitement, which was currently overriding the hint of her own nervousness.

Being a cat, Crookshanks was not really aware of the most important fact: this was a train full of children, most of whom were headed towards a war just heating up. All Crookshanks knew was Hermione’s pleasure, evident in the warm way she kept stroking his fur, and the Irish boy’s heavily projected anticipation.

Something was happening. Something was changing. It kept Crookshanks from being lulled to sleep completely.

Then, the door to the compartment opened, and two more people entered the cramped space.

The first, Crookshanks knew and even liked. This boy was Draco Malfoy, and the smile he sent Crookshanks’ girl was one of readiness, one of acceptance. This boy, always so nervous, was not nervous now.

The second was another girl, who most certainly _was_ nervous and rather reckless too. She had dark hair and a prettily composed face, although both of these features were almost completely obscured by her giant hood. The Irish boy stopped his babbling then to smile at the girl. The girl smiled back.

The boy, Draco Malfoy, ruffled the cat’s fur as the train came to a complete stop.

Outside the compartment, people stirred. Both his owner and the Irish boy rose, Hermione scooping the cat into her arms. Crookshanks snuggled in and watched as the Irish boy opened the door of the compartment, as he extended his hand to the girl in the hood. The girl’s posture was proud, and Crookshanks watched as they stepped out of the compartment, hand in hand and determined. Over Hermione’s shoulder, the cat watched Draco Malfoy place a hand to her back, and then they were moving too.

Two Gryffindors and two Slytherins did the unthinkable as Crookshanks watched.

They exited the train together.

 

**The End**

Epilogue to follow either tonight or tomorrow. There's just one more scene I want to write! lol.


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